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DiPellerS 


AlbejT't 
Di^elouj 
"  Paine  ^ 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 


PRESENTED  BY 

PROF. CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 

MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


THE 
SHI  P-DWELLERS 

A     STORY     OF     A     HAPPY     CRUISE 


BY 

ALBERT    BIGELOW    PAINE 

AUTHOR    OF 

"FROM    VAN-DWELLER   TO    COMMUTER" 

"THE   TENT-DWELLERS  "    ETC. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS  FROM 
DRAWINGS  liY  THOMAS  FOGARTY 
AND      FROM      PHOTOGRAPHS 


HARPER    6-    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 

NEW   YORK   AND    LONDON 

M  C  M  X 


Books  by 

ALBERT  BIGELOW 

PAINE 

The  Ship-Dwellers.    Illustrated 

8vo  »e/ 

$1.50 

The  Tent- Dwellers.     Illustrated    . 

Post  8vo 

1.50 

The  Hollow  Tree  and  Deep  Woods  Book. 

Illustrated. 

Post  8vo 

1.50 

From  Van-Dweller  to  Commuter 

.    lU'd. 

Post  Bvo 

1.50 

Life  of  Thomas  Nast.    lU'd    .    .    . 

8vo  ttei 
SHERS, 

5.00 

N.  Y. 

HARPER  &   BROTHERS,    PUBLl 

Copyright,  igio,  by  Hakper  &  Bkothkks 

AU  rights  reset~veu 

Published  May,  1910 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  Amertca 


TO 
MARK    TWAIN 

HERO   OF    MY   CHILDHOOD 

INSPIRATION      OF     MY     YOUTH 

FRIEND     OF    THESE    LATER    YEARS 


T3 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I  The  Book,  and  the  Dream i 

II  In  the  Track  of  the  Innocents 9 

III  Days  at  Sea 16 

IV  We  Become  History 23 

V  Introducing  the  Reprobates 26 

VI  A  Land  of  Heart's  Desire 29 

VII  A  Day  to  Ourselves 41 

VIII  Out  of  the  Sunrise 46 

IX  Early  Mediterranean  Experiences 57 

X  The  Diverting  Story  of  Algiers 62 

XI  We  Enter  the  Orient 68 

XII  We  Touch  at  Genoa 86 

XIII  Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 95 

XIV  A  Sunday  at  Sea 113 

XV  A  Port  of  Missing  Dreams 118 

XVI  Athens  that  Is 139 

XVII  Into  the  Dardanelles 146 

XVIII  A  City  of  Illusion 150 

XIX  The  Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases      ....  158 

XX  Abdul  Hamid  Goes  to  Prayer 172 

XXI  Looking  Down  on  Yildiz 182 

XXII  Ephesus:   the  City  that  Was 191 

XXIII  Into  Syria 208 

XXIV  The  House  that  Cain  Built 214 

XXV  Going  Down  to  Damascus    ...  * 222 

XXVI  The  "Pearl  of  the  East" 226 

V 


ivi309165 


Contents 


CHAP.  PAGE 

XXVII  Footprints  of  Paul 239 

XXVIII  Discontented  Pilgrims 247 

XXIX  Damascus,  the  Garden  Beautiful  ....  255 

XXX  Where  Pilgrims  Gather  In 263 

XXXI  The  Holy  City 274 

XXXII  The  Holy  Sepulchre 278 

XXXIII  Two  Holy  Mountains 288 

XXXIV  The  Little  Town  of  the  Manger   ....  297 

XXXV  The  Sorrow  of  the  Chosen — The  Way  of  the 

Cross 301 

XXXVI  At  the  Mouth  of  the  Nile 309 

XXXVII  The  Smile  of  the  Sphinx 315 

XXXVIII  Ways  that  Are  Egyptian 322 

XXXIX  Where  History  Began 328 

XL               Karnak  and  Luxor 335 

XLI  The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings      ....  346 

XLII           The  Highway  of  Egypt 359 

XLIII  Other  Ways  that  Are  Egyptian      ....  370 

XLIV  Sakkara  and  the  Sacred  Bulls       •     •     •     •  37  7 

XLV            A  Visit  with  Rameses  II 382 

XLVI  The  Long  Way  Home .391 


ILLUSTRATIONS 


WE    CHANGED    OUR    MINDS    ABOUT    BEING    WILLING    TO 

SAIL   PAST Frontispiece 

TO   ME   IT   WAS   ALL  TRUE,    ALL   ROMANCE ALL   POETRY  Page  3 

SOMEBODY    SENT    ME    A    BASKET    OF    FRUIT "  I3 

THEY   ARE   AN   ATTRACTIVE   LOT THE   REPROBATES   .       .  "  17 

GAVE    HIM    THE    "  ICY    MITT" "  21 

they  could  dive  like  seals **  33 

two  men  take  you  in  hand,  and  away  you  go    .  "  38 

did  a  sort  of  fandarole **  4! 

then  it  dawned  upon  the  diplomat **  43 

but  now  gibraltar,  the  crouching  lion  of  trafal- 
gar, had  risen  from  the  sea "  49 

we  could  have  listened  all  night  to  benunes    .  "  53 

"that  is  the  kasba" "  66 

one  does  not  hurry  the  orient one  waits  on  it  "  68 

marvellous  baskets  and  queer  things    ....  "  72 

we  did  not  care  much  for  parks "  74 

eternally  east  with  no  hint  of  the  outside  world  "  76 
two  bent,  wrinkled  women  weaving  lace  outside 

THE    DOOR   


WE    LOOKED    ACROSS   THE    ENTRANCE    AND   TJ^ERE    ROSE 

THE    ACROPOLIS,    HIGH    AGAINST    THE    BLUE.       .       .  Fac 

HE  WOULD  SWING  HIS  ARMS  AND  BEGIN,  "  YOU  SEE !" 

THE    REST    REQUIRED    A    MIND-READER         .... 

I  WOULD  HAVE  APPLIED  FOR  THE  POSITION  IN  THE 
CHORUS    MYSELF    

TOOK    TURNS    ADDRESSING    THE    MULTITUDE       .... 
one's  age,   stated  on   oath,  goes  with  a  PASSPORT  . 

KEYEFF       

I  WANTED  TO  CARRY  AWAY  ONE  OF  THOSE   TOMBSTONES 

vii 


109 

ng  p.  122 
Page    124 


129 

131 
148 

150 
189 


Illustrations 


ALL  THE  PLAINS  AND  SLOPES  OF  THE  OLD  CITY,  WITH 
ITS  WHITE  FRAGMENTS  AND  POOR  RUINED  HAR- 
BOR,   LAY    AT    OUR    FEET Facing  p.  I g8 

FROM    THE    TIME    OF   ADAM,    BAALBEC    BECAME    A    PLACE 

OF    ALTARS "  2l6 

SO  THE  PATRIARCHS  JOURNEYED;  SO,  TWO  THOUSAND 
YEARS  LATER,  JOSEPH  AND  MARY  TRAVELLED  INTO 
EGYPT Page     225 

URGING  US  TO  PARTAKE  OF  THE  PRECIOUS  STUFF,  WITH- 
OUT   STINT "         243 

ASKED  HIM  IF  HE  WOULDN't  EXECUTE  A  LITTLE  COM- 
MISSION  FOR  ME   IN  THE   BAZAARS 249 

THE    PATRIARCH    KNEW    ALL    ABOUT    JAFFA "         264 

JERUSALEM ITS    BUBBLE-ROOFED    HOUSES   AND    DOMES, 

ITS    CYPRESS    AND    OLIVE    TREES Facing  p.  2g4. 

A    CAMEL    TRAIN    LED    THE    WAY    THROUGH    THE    GATES  "  3OO 

THE    DEPTH    OF    THEIR    FALL "  302 

THE    WAY    OF    THE    CROSS "  304 

THE    TRUE    GOLGOTHA THE    PLACE    OF    THE    SKULL  .  "  306 

A    VAST    INDIFFERENCE    TO    ALL    PUNY    THINGS        ...  "  318 

SANCTUARY    IN    KARNAK "  332 

GADDIS "  332 

I  MADE  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  FLY-BRUSH  BRIGADE  .  .  "  338 
ITS    MAGNIFICENT    PYLONS    OR    ENTRANCE     WALLS    .     .     . 

AND  THEN  ONCE  MORE  WE  WERE  ON  THE  DONKEYS  "  340 
THE    TEMPLE    OF    LUXOR    .    .     .    ONCE    MORE    REFLECTING 

ITS    COLUMNS    IN    THE    NILE "  342 

THINK    OF    WATERING    A    WHOLE    WHEAT-FIELD    WITH    A 

WELL-SWEEP    AND    A    PAIL "  360 

GOT    IT    MADE    CHEAP    SOMEWHERE,    WITH    HER    PICTURE 

CARVED    ON    THE    FRONT    OF    IT "  386 

SET    OUT    ON    THE    LONG,  STEADY,  ATLANTIC    SWING  .       .  Page  392 


Vs 


THE    SHIP-DWELLERS 


"The  grand  object  of  all  travel  is  to  see 
the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean." 

— Dr.  Samuel  Johnson. 


^"^^^i^^m^^^^pr--^^^ 


THE    SHIP-DWELLERS 


THE  BOOK,  AND  THE  DREAM 


IT  was  a  long  time  ago — far  back  in  another  cen- 
tury—  that  my  father  brought  home  from  the 
village,  one  evening,  a  brand-new  book.  There  were 
not  so  many  books  in  those  days,  and  this  was  a  fine 
big  one,  with  black  and  gilt  covers,  and  such  a  lot  of 
pictures ! 

I  was  at  an  age  to  claim  things.  I  said  the  book 
was  my  book,  and,  later,  petitioned  my  father  to  es- 
tablish that  claim.  (I  remember  we  were  climbing 
through  the  bars  at  the  time,  having  driven  the  cows 
to  the  further  pasture.) 

My  father  was  kindly  disposed,  but  conservative; 
that  was  his  habit.  He  said  that  I  might  look  at  the 
book — that  I  might  even  read  it,  some  day,  when  I 
was  old  enough,  and  I  think  he  added  that  privately 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


I  might  call  it  mine — a  privilege  which  provided  as 
well  for  any  claim  I  might  have  on  the  moon. 

I  don't  think  these  permissions  altogether  satis- 
fied me.  I  was  already  in  the  second  reader,  and  the 
lust  of  individual  ownership  was  upon  me.  Besides, 
this  was  a  New  Pilgrim's  Progress.  We  had  respect 
in  our  house  for  the  old  Pilgrim's  Progress,  and  I  had 
been  encouraged  to  search  its  pages.  I  had  read  it, 
or  read  at  it,  for  a  good  while,  and  my  claim  of  owner- 
ship in  that  direction  had  never  been  disputed.  Now, 
here  was  a  brand-new  one,  and  the  pictures  in  it  looked 
most  attractive.  I  was  especially  enamoured  of  the 
frontispiece,  "The  Pilgrim's  Vision,"  showing  the 
"Innocents"  on  their  way  "abroad,"  standing  on  the 
deck  of  the  Quaker  City  and  gazing  at  Bible  pictures 
in  the  sky. 

I  do  not  remember  how  the  question  of  owner- 
ship settled  itself.  I  do  remember  how  the  book 
that  winter  became  the  nucleus  of  our  family  circle, 
and  how  night  after  night  my  mother  read  aloud 
from  it  while  the  rest  of  us  listened,  and  often  the 
others  laughed. 

I  did  not  laugh^not  then.  In  the  first  place,  I 
would  not,  in  those  days,  laugh  at  any  Pilgrim's 
Progress,  especially  at  a  new  one,  and  then  I  had  not 
arrived  at  the  point  of  sophistication  where  a  joke,  a 
literary  joke,  registers.  To  me  it  was  all  true,  all 
romance — all  poetry — ^the  story  of  those  happy 
voyagers  who  sailed  in  a  ship  of  dreams  to  lands 
beyond  the  sunrise,  where  men  with  turbans,  long 
flowing  garments  and  Bible  whiskers  rode  on  camels  ; 
where  ruined  columns  rose  in  a  desert  that  was  once 


The  Book,   and  the  Dream 


a  city ;  where  the  Sphinx  and  the  Pyramids  looked  out 
over  the  sands  that  had  drifted  about  them  long  and 
long  before  the  Wise  Men  of  the  East  had  seen  the 
Star  rise  over  Bethlehem. 

In  the  big,  bleak  farm-house  on  the  wide,  bleak 
Illinois  prairie  I  looked  into  the  open  fire  and  dreamed. 


TO    ME    IT    WAS    ALL    TRUE,    ALL   ROMANCE ALL    POETRY 


Some  day,  somehow,  I  would  see  those  distant  lands. 
I  would  sail  away  on  that  ship  with  "Dan"  and 
•'Jack"  and  "The  Doctor"  to  the  Far  East;  I 
would  visit  Damascus  and  Jerusalem,  and  pitch  my 
camp  on  the  borders  of  the  Nile.  Very  likely  I  should 
decide  to  remain  there  and  live  happy  ever  after. 

How  the  dreams  of  youth  stretch  down  the  years, 
and  fade,  and  change!  Only  this  one  did  not  fade, 
and  I  thought  it  did  not  change.  I  learned  to  laugh 
with  the  others,  by-and-by,  but  the  romance  and  the 

3 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


poetry  of  the  pilgrimage  did  not  grow  dim.  The 
argonauts  of  the  Quaker  City  sailed  always  in  a  halo 
of  romance  to  harbors  of  the  forgotten  days.  As 
often  as  I  picked  up  the  book  the  dream  was  fresh 
and  new,  though  realization  seemed  ever  further  and 
still  further  ahead. 

Then  all  at  once,  there,  just  within  reach,  it  lay. 
There  was  no  reason  why,  in  some  measure  at  least, 
I  should  not  follow  the  track  of  those  old  first  * '  In- 
nocents Abroad."  Of  course,  I  was  dreaming  again — 
only,  this  time,  perhaps,  I  could  make  the  dream 
come  true. 

I  began  to  read  advertisements.  I  found  that  a 
good  many  shiploads  of  "Pilgrims"  had  followed 
that  first  little  band  to  the  Orient — ^that  the  first 
** ocean  picnic"  steamer,  which  set  sail  in  June  forty- 
two  years  before,  had  started  a  fashion  in  sea  ex- 
cursioning  which  had  changed  only  in  details.  Ocean 
picnics  to  the  Mediterranean  were  made  in  winter 
now,  and  the  vessels  used  for  them  were  fully  eight 
times  as  big  as  the  old  Quaker  City,  which  had  been  a 
side-wheel  steamer,  and  grand,  no  doubt,  for  her  period, 
with  a  register  proudly  advertised  at  eighteen  hundred 
tons!  Itineraries,  too,  varied'more  or  less,  but  Greece, 
Egypt,  and  the  Holy  Land  were  still  names  to  conjure 
with.  Advertisements  of  cruises  were  plentiful,  and 
literature  on  the  subject  was  luminous  and  exciting. 
A  small  table  by  my  bed  became  gorgeous  with  pros- 
pectuses in  blue  and  gold  and  crimson  sunset  dyes. 
The  Sphinx,  the  Pyramids,  and  prows  of  stately 
vessels  looked  out  from  many  covers  and  became  back- 
grounds for  lofty,  dark-blue  camels  and  dusky  men 

4 


The  Book,  and   the  Dream 


of  fantastic  dress.  Often  I  woke  in  the  night  and  Ht 
my  lamp  and  consulted  these  things.  When  I  went 
to  the  city  I  made  the  lives  of  various  agents  miserable 
with  my  inquiries.  It  was  hard — it  was  nerve-rack- 
ing to  decide.  But  on  one  of  these  occasions  I  over- 
heard the  casual  remark  that  the  S.  S.  Grosser  Kurfiirst 
would  set  out  on  her  cruise  to  the  Orient  with  two 
tons  of  dressed  chicken  and  four  thousand  bottles  of 
champagne. 

I  hesitated  no  longer.  Dear  me,  my  dream  had 
changed,  then,  after  all !  Such  things  had  not  in  the 
least  concerned  the  boy  who  had  looked  into  the 
open  fire,  and  pictured  a  pilgrimage  to  Damascus  and 
Jerusalem,  and  a  camp  on  the  borders  of  the  Nile. 

My  remembrance  of  the  next  few  days  is  hazy — 
that  is,  it  is  kaleidoscopic.  I  recall  doing  a  good 
many  things  in  a  hurry  and  receiving  a  good  deal 
of  advice.  Also  the  impression  that  everybody  in 
the  world  except  myself  had  been  everywhere  in  the 
world,  and  that  presently  they  were  all  going  again, 
and  that  I  should  find  them,  no  doubt,  strewn  all  the 
way  from  Gibraltar  to  Jerusalem,  when  I  had  been 
persuading  myself  that  in  the  places  I  had  intended 
to  visit  I  should  meet  only  the  fantastic  stranger. 
Suddenly  it  was  two  days  before  sailing.  Then  it 
was  the  day  before  sailing.  Then  it  was  sailing 
day! 

Perhaps  it  was  the  hurry  and  stress  of  those  last 
days;  perhaps  it  is  the  feeling  natural  to  such  a 
proximity.  I  do  not  know.  But  I  do  know  that 
during  those  final  flying  hours,  when  I  was  looking 
across  the  very  threshold  of  realization,  the  old  fas- 

5 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


cination  faded,  and  if  somebody  had  only  suggested 
a  good  reason  for  my  staying  at  home,  I  would  have 
stayed  there,  and  I  would  have  given  that  person 
something  valuable,  besides.  But  nobody  did  it. 
Not  a  soul  was  thoughtful  enough  to  hint  that  I  was 
either  needed  or  desired  in  my  native  land,  and  I  was 
too  modest  to  mention  it  myself. 

There  had  been  rain,  but  it  was  bright  enough 
that  February  morning  of  departure — ^just  a  bit 
squally  along  the  west.  What  a  gay  crowd  there 
was  at  the  pier  and  on  the  vessel!  I  thought  all  of 
New  York  must  be  going.  That  was  a  mistake — ^they 
were  mostly  visitors,  as  I  discovered  later.  It  would 
average  three  visitors  to  one  passenger,  I  should  think. 
I  had  more  than  that — ^twice  as  many.  I  am  not 
boasting — ^they  came  mainly  to  be  sure  that  I  got 
aboard  and  stayed  there,  and  to  see  that  I  didn't  lose 
most  of  my  things.  They  knew  me  and  what  I  would 
be  likely  to  do,  alone.  They  wanted  to  steer  me 
to  the  right  state-room  and  distribute  my  traps.  Then 
they  could  put  me  in  charge  of  Providence  and  the 
deck-steward,  and  wash  their  hands  of  me,  and  feel 
that  whatever  happened  they  had  done  their  duty 
and  were  not  to  blame. 

So  I  had  six,  as  I  say,  and  we  worked  our  way 
through,  among  the  passengers  and  visitors,  who 
seemed  all  to  be  talking  and  laughing  at  once  or  paw- 
ing over  mail  and  packages  heaped  upon  the  cabin 
table.  I  didn't  feel  like  laughing  and  talking,  and 
I  wasn't  interested  in  the  mail.  Almost  everybody 
in  the  world  that  meant  anything  to  me  was  in  my 
crowd,  and  they  were  going  away,  presently,  to  leave 

6 


The  Book,  and  the  Dream 


me  on  this  big  ship,  among  strangers,  bound  for  the 
strange  lands.  My  long  dream  of  the  Orient  dwindled 
to  a  decrepit  thing. 

But  presently  we  found  my  state-room,  and  it  was 
gratifying.  I  was  impressed  with  its  regal  furnish- 
ings. After  all,  there  were  compensations  in  a 
habitation  like  that.  Besides,  there  were  always 
the  two  tons  of  dressed  chicken  and  those  thousands  of 
champagne.     I  became  more  cheerful. 

Only,  I  wish  the  ship  people  wouldn't  find  it  neces- 
sary to  blow  their  whistle  so  loud  and  suddenly  to 
send  one's  friends  ashore.  There  is  no  chance  to 
carry  off  somebody — somebody  you  would  enjoy 
having  along.  They  blow  that  thing  until  it  shivers 
the  very  marrow  of  one's  soul. 

How  the  visitors  do  crowd  ashore!  A  word — a 
last  kiss — a  **God  bless  you" — your  own  are  gone 
presently — you  are  left" merely  standing  there,  aban- 
doned, marooned,  deserted — feeling  somehow  that 
it's  all  wrong,  and  that  something  ought  to  be  done 
about  it.  Why  don't  those  people  hurry?  You 
want  to  get  away  now ;  you  want  it  over  with. 

A  familiar  figure  fights  its  way  up  the  gang-plank, 
breasting  the  shoreward  tide.  Your  pulse  jumps — 
they  are  going  to  take  you  home,  after  all.  But  no, 
he  only  comes  to  tell  you  that  your  six  will  be  at  a 
certain  place  near  the  end  of  the  dock,  where  you 
can  see  them,  and  wave  to  them. 

You  push  to  the  ship's  side  for  a  place  at  the  rail. 
The  last  visitors  are  straggling  off  now,  even  to  the 
final  official.  Then  somewhere  somebody  does  some- 
thing that  slackens  the  cables,  the  remaining  gang- 

7 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


plank  is  dragged  away.  That  whistle  again,  and  then 
a  band — our  band — ^turns  loose  a  perfect  storm  of 
music. 

We  are  going!  We  are  going!  We  have  dropped 
away  from  the  pier  and  are  gliding  past  the  rows  of 
upturned  faces,  the  lines  of  frantic  handkerchiefs. 
Yes,  oh  yes,  we  are  going — ^there  is  no  turning  back 
now,  no  changing  of  one's  mind  again.  All  the  cares 
of  work,  the  claims  of  home — ^they  cannot  reach  us 
any  more.  Those  waiting  at  the  pier's  end  to  wave 
as  we  pass  —  whatever  life  holds  for  me  is  centred 
there,  and  I  am  leaving  it  all  behind.  There  they  are, 
now!  Wave!  Wave!  Oh,  I  did  not  know  it  would 
be  like  this!  I  did  not  suppose  that  I  might — need 
another  handkerchief! 

The  smoke  of  a  tug  drifts  between — I  have  lost 
them.  No,  there  they  are  again,  still  waving.  That 
white  spot — that  is  a  little  furry  coat — such  a  little 
furry  coat  and  getting  so  far  off,  and  so  blurry.  My 
glass — if  I  can  only  get  hold  of  myself  enough  to  see 
through  it.  Yes,  there  they  are!  Oh,  those  wretched 
boats  to  drift  in  and  shut  that  baby  figure  away! 
Now  they  are  gone,  but  I  cannot  find  her  again. 
The  smoke,  the  mist,  and  a  sudden  drift  of  snow  have 
swept  between.  I  have  lost  the  direction — I  don't 
know  where  to  look  any  more.  It  is  all  over — we  are 
off — ^we  are  going  out  to  sea  I 


II 

IN  THE  TRACK  OF  THE  INNOCENTS 

WE  are  through  luncheon;  we  have  left  Sandy 
Hook,  and  the  shores  have  dropped  behind 
the  western  horizon.  It  was  a  noble  luncheon  we 
sat  down  to  as  we  crossed  the  lower  bay.  One 
stopped  at  the  serving-table  to  admire  an  exhibition 
like  that.  Banked  up  in  splendid  pyramids  as  for 
a  World's  Fair  display,  garnished  and  embroidered 
and  fringed  with  every  inviting  trick  of  decoration, 
it  was  a  spectacle  to  take  one's  breath  and  make  him 
resolve  to  consume  it  all.  One  felt  that  he  could 
recover  a  good  deal  on  a  luncheon  like  that,  but  I 
think  the  most  of  us  recovered  too  much.  I  am  sure, 
now,  that  I  did — a  good  deal  too  much — and  that 
my  selections  were  not  the  best — not  for  the  beginning 
of  a  strange,  new  life  at  sea. 

Then  there  was  Laura — Laura,  age  fourteen,  whose 
place  at  the  table  is  next  to  mine,  and  a  rather  sturdy 
young  person ;  I  think  she  also  considered  the  bill  of 
fare  too  casually.  She  ventured  the  information  that 
this  was  her  second  voyage,  that  the  first  had  been  a 
short  trip  on  a  smaller  vessel,  and  that  she  had  been 
seasick.  She  did  not  intend  to  be  seasick  on  a  fine, 
big  steamer  like  this,  and  I  could  tell  by  the  liberality 

9 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


with  which  she  stowed  away  the  satisfying  German 
provender  that  she  had  enjoyed  an  early  and  light 
breakfast,  followed  by  brisk  exercise  in  getting  to  the 
ship.  The  tables  were  gay  with  flowers;  the  com- 
pany looked  happy,  handsome,  and  well-dressed ;  the 
music  was  inspiring.  Friends  left  behind  seemed  sud- 
denly very  far  away.  We  had  become  a  little  world 
all  to  ourselves — most  of  us  strangers  to  one  another, 
but  thrown  in  a  narrow  compass  here  and  likely  to 
remain  associates  for  weeks,  even  months.  What  a 
big,  jolly  picnic  it  was,  after  all! 

Outside  it  was  bleak  and  squally,  but  no  matter. 
The  air  was  fine  and  salt  and  invigorating.  The  old 
Quaker  City  had  been  held  by  storm  at  anchor  in  the 
lower  bay.  We  were  already  down  the  Narrows  and 
heading  straight  for  the  open  sea.  Land  presently  lost 
its  detail  and  became  a  dark  outline.  That,  too,  sank 
lower  and  became  grayer  and  fell  back  into  the  mist. 

I  remembered  that  certain  travellers  had  display- 
ed strong  emotions  on  seeing  their  native  land  dis- 
appear. I  had  none — none  of  any  consequence.  I 
had  symptoms,  though,  and  I  recognized  them.  Like 
Laura,  aged  fourteen,  I  had  taken  a  shorter  voy- 
age on  a  poorer  ship,  and  I  had  decided  that  this 
would  be  different.  I  had  engaged  a  steamer-chair, 
and  soon  after  luncheon  I  thought  I  would  take  a 
cigar  and  a  book  on  Italy  and  come  out  here  and  sit 
in  it — in  the  chair,  of  course — and  smoke  and  think 
and  look  out  to  sea.  But  when  I  got  to  the  door  of 
my  state-room  and  felt  the  great  vessel  take  a  slow, 
curious  side-step  and  caught  a  faint  whiff  of  linoleum 
and  varnish  from  the  newly  renovated  cabin,  I  decided 


In  the   Track   of  the  Innocents 


to  forego  the  cigar  and  guide-book  and  take  a  volume 
on  mind  cure  instead. 

It  seems  a  good  ship,  though,  and  I  feel  that  we 
shall  all  learn  to  be  proud  of  her,  in  time.  In  a  little 
prospectus  pamphlet  I  have  here  I  find  some  of  her 
measurements  and  capacities,  and  I  have  been  com- 
paring them  with  those  of  the  Quaker  City,  the  first 
steamer  to  set  out  on  this  Oriental  cruise.  If  she 
were  travelling  along  beside  us  to-day  I  suppose  she 
would  look  like  a  private  yacht.  She  must  have  had 
trouble  with  a  sea  like  this.  She  was  little  more  than 
two  hundred  feet  long,  I  believe,  and,  as  already  men- 
tioned, her  tonnage  was  registered  at  eighteen  hundred. 
The  figures  set  down  in  the  prospectus  for  this  vessel 
are  a  good  deal  bigger  than  those,  but  they  are  still 
too  modest.  The  figures  quote  her  as  being  a  trifle 
less  than  six  hundred  feet  long,  but  I  can  see  in  both 
directions  from  where  I  sit,  and  I  am  satisfied  that  it 
would  take  me  hours  to  get  either  to  her  bow  or  stern. 
I  don't  believe  I  could  do  it  in  that  time.  I  am  con- 
vinced that  it  is  at  least  half  a  mile  to  my  state-room. 

The  prospectus  is  correct,  however,  in  one  item.  It 
says  that  the  Kurjurst  has  a  displacement  of  twenty- 
two  thousand  tons.  That  is  handsome,  and  it  is  not 
too  much;  I  realized  that  some  moments  ago.  When 
I  felt  our  noble  vessel  "sashay"  in  her  slow  majestic 
fashion  toward  Cuba,  and  then  pause  to  revolve  the 
matter  a  little,  and  after  concluding  to  sink,  suddenly 
set  out  in  a  long,  slow,  upward  slide  for  the  moon,  I 
knew  that  her  displacement  was  all  that  is  claimed 
for  it,  and  I  prepared  for  the  worst;  so  did  Laura, 
and  started  for  her  state-room  suddenly.  .  .  . 

II 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Later:  I  don't  know  how  many  of  our  party  went 
down  to  dinner.  I  know  one  that  did  not  go.  The 
music  is  good,  but  I  can  hear  it  very  well  from  where  I 
am.  No  doubt  the  dinner  is  good,  too,  but  I  am 
satisfied  to  give  it  absent  treatment. 

There  is  a  full-blown  Scientist  in  the  next  room.  She 
keeps  saying  ''Mind  is  all.  Mind  is  all.  This  is  nothing. 
This  is — ^this  is  just — "  after  which,  the  Earthquake. 

What  an  amazing  ocean  it  is  to  be  able  to  toss  this 
mighty  ship  about  in  such  a  way!  I  suppose  there  is 
no  hope  of  her  sinking.     No  hope! 

Somebody  sent  me  a  basket  of  fruit.  I  vaguely 
wonder  what  it  is  like,  and  if  I  shall  ever  know?  I 
suppose  there  are  men  who  could  untie  that  paper 
and  look  at  it.  I  could  stand  in  awe  of  a  man  like 
that.     I  could — 

However,  it  is  no  matter;  there  is  no  such  man. 

But  it  was  bright  next  morning,  though  a  heavy 
sea  was  still  running.  I  was  by  no  means  perfectly 
happy,  but  I  struggled  on  deck  quite  early,  and 
found  company.  A  stout  youngish  man  was  marching 
round  and  round  vigorously  as  if  the  number  of  laps 
he  might  achieve  was  vital.  He  fetched  up  suddenly 
as  I  stepped  on  deck.     He  spoke  with  quick  energy. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "perhaps  you  can 
tell  me;  it's  important,  and  I  want  to  know:  is  a 
seasick  man  better  off  if  he  walks  or  sits  still?  I'm 
seasick.  I  confess  it,  fully.  My  interior  economy  is 
all  disqualified,  and  I  want  advice.  Now  tell  me,  is 
a  seasick  man  better  off  when  he  walks  or  when  he 
sits  still?" 

12 


In  the   Track   of  the  Innocents 


I  gave  it  up,  and  the  Diplomat  (we  learned  later 
that  he  was  connected  with  the  consular  service) 
passed  to  the  next  possible  source  of  information.  I 
heard  him  propounding  his  inquiries  several  times  dur- 
ing the  morning  as  new  arrivals  appeared  on  deck. 


SOMEBODY    SENT    ME    A    BASKET    OF    FRUIT 

He  was  the  most  honest  man  on  the  ship.  The  rest 
of  us  did  not  confess  that  we  were  seasick.  We  had  a 
bad  cold  or  rheumatism  or  dyspepsia  or  locomotor- 
ataxia  or  pleurisy — all  sorts  of  things — but  we  were 
not  seasick.  It  was  remarkable  what  a  floating 
hospital  of  miscellaneous   complaints  the  ship  had 

2  13 


The   Ship  -Dwellers 


become,  and  how  suddenly  they  all  disappeared  that 
afternoon  when  the  sea  went  down. 

It  was  Lincoln's  Birthday,  and,  inspired  by  the 
lively  appearance  of  the  deck,  a  kindly  promoter  of 
entertainment  went  among  the  passengers  inviting 
them  to  take  part  in  some  sort  of  simple  exercises  for 
the  evening.  Our  pleasure  excursion  seemed  really 
to  have  begun  now,  and  walking  leisurely  around 
the  promenade-deck  one  could  get  a  fair  impression 
of  our  company  and  cast  the  horoscope.  They  were 
a  fair  average  of  Americans,  on  the  whole,  with  a 
heavy  percentage  of  foreign  faces,  mostly  German. 
Referring  to  the  passenger-list,  one  discovered  that 
we  hailed  from  many  States ;  but  when  I  drifted  into 
the  German  purlieus  of  that  register  and  found  such 
prefixes  as  Herr  Regierungs-prasident  a.  D.,  and  Frau 
Regierungs-prasident  a.  D.,  and  looking  further  dis- 
covered Herr  Kommerzienrat,  Herr  Oberprasidialrat 
von,  and  a  few  more  high-power  explosives  like  that,  I 
said,  **This  is  not  an  excursion,  after  all;  it  is  a  court 
assembly."  I  did  not  know  in  the  least  what  these 
titles  meant,  but  I  was  uneasy.  I  had  the  feeling  that 
the  owner  of  any  one  of  them  could  nod  to  the  execu- 
tioner and  dismiss  me  permanently  from  the  ship. 
The  interpreter  came  along  just  then.     He  said: 

' '  Do  not  excite  yourself.  They  are  not  so  dangerous 
as  they  look.  It  is  only  as  one  would  say,  *Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Councilmanofthethirdward  Jones,  or  Mr.  Mayor- 
ofOshkosh  Smith,  or  Mrs.  Commissionerofhighways 
Brown.'  It  is  pure  decoration;  nothing  fatal  will 
occur."  I  felt  better  then,  and  set  out  to  identify 
some  of  the  owners  of  this  furniture.     It  was  as  the 

14 


In  the   Track    of  the  Innocents 


interpreter  had  said — ^there  was  no  danger.  A  man 
with  a  six-story  title  could  hardly  be  distinguished 
from  the  rest  of  his  countrymen  except  when  he  tried 
to  sign  it.  But  a  thing  like  that  must  be  valuable  in 
Germany;  otherwise  he  would  not  go  to  the  trouble 
and  expense  of  lugging  such  a  burden  around  on  a 
trip  like  this,  when  one  usually  wants  to  travel 
light. 

The  ship  gave  us  a  surprise  that  night,  and  it  was 
worth  while.  When  we  got  to  the  dining-room  we 
found  it  decorated  with  the  interwoven  colors  of  two 
nations;  the  tables  likewise  radiant,  and  there  were 
menus  with  the  picture  of  Abraham  Lincoln  outside. 
We  were  far  out  in  the  blackness  of  the  ocean  now, 
but  here  was  as  brilliant  a  spot  as  you  would  find 
at  Sherry's  or  Delmonico's,  and  a  little  company  gath- 
ered from  the  world's  end  to  do  honor  to  the  pioneer 
boy  of  Kentucky.  I  think  many  of  us  there  had 
never  observed  Lincoln's  Birthday  before,  and  it  was 
fitting  enough  that  we  should  begin  at  such  a  time 
and  place.  I  know  we  all  rose  and  joined  in  America 
and  the  Star-Spangled  Banner  at  the  close,  and  we 
are  not  likely  to  forget  that  mid-ocean  celebration  of 
the  birth  of  America's  greatest,  gentlest  hero. 


Ill 

DAYS   AT   SEA 

WE  have  settled  down  into  a  pleasant  routine  of 
lazy  life.  Most  of  us  are  regularly  on  deck 
now,  though  one  sees  new  faces  daily. 

We  have  taken  up  such  amusements  as  please  us — 
reading,  games,  gossip,  diaries,  picture-puzzles,  and 
there  are  even  one  or  two  mild  flirtations  discoverable. 
In  the  "booze-bazaar"  (the  Diplomat's  name  for  the 
smoking-room)  the  Reprobates  find  solace  in  pleasant 
mixtures  and  droll  stories,  while  they  win  one  another's 
money  at  diverting  games.  They  are  an  attractive 
lot — the  Reprobates.  One  can  hardly  tear  himself 
away  from  them.  Only  the  odors  of  the  smoking- 
room  are  not  quite  attractive,  as  yet.  I  am  no  longer 
seasick — at  least,  not  definitely  so;  but  I  still  say 
"Mind  is  all"  as  I  pass  through  the  smoking-room. 

We  are  getting  well  acquainted,  too,  for  the  brief 
period  of  time  we  have  been  together.  It  does  not 
seem  brief,  however.  That  bleak  day  of  departure  in 
North  River  is  already  far  back  in  the  past — as  far 
back  as  if  it  belonged  to  another  period,  which  indeed 
it  does.  We  are  becoming  acquainted,  as  I  say.  We 
are  rapidly  finding  out  one  another's  names ;  whether 
we  are  married,  single,  or  divorced — and  why;  what, 
if  anything,  we  do  when  we  are  at  home;  how  we 
happened  to  come  on  this  trip;  and  a  great  deal  of 

i6 


Days  at  Sea 


useful  information — useful  on  a  ship  like  this,  where 
the  voyage  is  to  be  a  long  one  and  associations  more  or 
less  continuous.  We  form  into  little  groups  and  dis- 
cuss these  things — our  own  affairs  first — then  present- 
ly we  shift  the  personnel  of  our  groups  and  discuss 
each  other,  and  are  happy  and  satisfied,  and  feel 
that  the  cruise  is  a  success. 

There  are  not  many  young  people  on  the  ship — 
a  condition  which  would  seem  to  have  prevailed  on 
these  long  ocean  excursions  since  the  first  Oriental 
pilgrimage,  forty-two  years  ago.     I  suppose  the  pros- 


THEY    ARE    AN    ATTRACTIVE    LOT — THE    REPROBATES 


pects  of  several  months  on  one  ship,  with  sight-seeing 
in  Egypt  and  the  Holy  Land,  do  not  look  attractive 
enough  to  the  average  young  person  who  is  thinking 
of  gayer  things.  One  can  be  gay  enough  on  ship- 
board, however,  where  there  is  a  good  band  of  music  j 
a  quarter-deck  to  dance  on ;  nooks  on  the  sun-deck  to 

17 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


flirt  in ;  promenades  and  shuffleboard,  with  full  dress 
every  night  for  dinner.  No  need  to  have  an  idle 
time  on  an  excursion  like  this  if  one  doesn't  want  it; 
which  most  of  us  do,  however,  because  we  are  no 
longer  entirely  young,  and  just  loaf  around  and  talk 
of  unimportant  things  and  pretend  to  read  up  on  the 
places  we  are  going  to  see. 

We  need  to  do  that.  What  we  don't  know  about 
history  and  geography  on  this  ship  would  sink  it. 
Most  of  us  who  have  been  to  school,  even  if  it  is  a  good 
while  ago,  keep  sort  of  mental  pictures  of  the  hemi- 
spheres, and  preserve  the  sound  of  certain  old  familiar 
names.  We  live  under  the  impression  that  this  is 
knowledge,  and  it  passes  well  enough  for  that  until  a 
time  comes  like  this  when  particular  places  on  the 
map  are  to  be  visited  and  particular  associations  are 
to  be  recalled.  Then,  of  course,  we  start  ia  to  classify 
and  distinguish,  and  suddenly  find  that  there  is 
scarcely  anything  to  classify  and  less  still  to  distin- 
guish. I  am  morally  certain  that  there  are  not  ten 
of  us  on  this  vessel  who  could  tell  with  certainty  the 
difference  between  Deucalion  and  Deuteronomy,  or 
between  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  and  the  Golden  Horn. 
The  brightest  man  on  the  ship  this  morning  asked  if 
Algiers  was  in  Egypt  or  Spain,  and  a  dashing  high- 
school  girl  wanted  to  know  if  Greece  were  not  a  part 
of  Asia  Minor. 

We  shall  all  know  better  when  we  are  through 
with  this  trip.  We  shall  be  wonders  in  the  matter 
of  knowledge,  and  we  shall  get  it  from  first  hands. 
We  shall  no  longer  confuse  Upper  and  Lower  Egypt, 
or  a  peristyle   with  a   stadium.     We  are  going  to 

i8 


Days   at  Sea 


know  about  these  things.  That  is  why  we  are 
here. 

In  the  matter  of  our  amusements,  picture-puzzles 
seem  to  be  in  the  lead.  They  are  fascinating  things, 
once  one  gets  the  habit.  They  sell  them  on  this  ship, 
and  nearly  everybody  has  one  or  more.  The  tables 
in  the  forward  cabin  are  full  of  them,  and  after  dinner 
there  is  a  group  around  each  table  pawing  over  the 
pieces  in  a  rapt  way  or  offering  advice  to  whoever 
happens  to  be  setting  them.  Certain  of  our  middle- 
aged  ladies  in  particular  find  comfort  in  the  picture- 
puzzles,  and  sit  all  day  in  their  steamer-chairs  with 
the  pieces  on  a  large  pasteboard  cover,  shifting  and 
trying  and  fitting  them  into  place.  One  wonders 
what  blessing  those  old  Quaker  City  pilgrims  had  that 
took  the  place  of  the  fascinating  picture-puzzle. 

We  are  getting  south  now,  and  the  weather  is  much 
warmer.  The  sun  is  bright,  too,  and  a  little  rainbow 
travels  with  the  ship,  just  over  the  port  screw.  When 
the  water  is  fairly  quiet  the  decks  are  really  gay.  New 
faces  still  appear,  however.  Every  little  while  there 
is  a  fresh  arrival,  as  it  were;  a  fluttering  out  from 
some  inner  tangle  of  sea  magic  and  darkness,  just  as  a 
butterfly  might  emerge  from  a  cocoon.  Some  of  them 
do  not  stay.  We  run  into  a  cross-sea  or  a  swell,  or 
something,  and  they  disappear  again,  and  their  places 
at  the  table  remain  vacant.  The  Diplomat  continues 
his  fight  and  his  inquiries.  Every  little  while  one 
may  hear  him  ask:  *'Is  it  better  for  a  seasick  man  to 
walk  or  to  sit  down?"  The  Diplomat  never  denies 
his  condition.  "Oh,  Lord,  I'm  seasick!"  he  says. 
"I'd  be  sick  on  a  duck-pond.     I'd  be  sick  if  the  ship 

19 


The  Ship -'Dwellers 


were  tied  to  the  dock.  I'd  be  sick  if  anybody  told  me 
I  was  on  a  ship.  Say,  what  is  a  fellow  like  that  to  do, 
anyway?     And  here  I  am  bound  for  Jerusalem!" 

Down  here  the  water  is  very  blue.  We  might  be 
sailing  on  a  great  tub  of  indigo.  One  imagines  that 
to  take  up  a  glass  of  it  would  be  to  dip  up  pure  ultra- 
marine.    I  mentioned  this  to  the  Diplomat. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "it  is  a  cracker-jack  of  an  ocean, 
but  I  don't  care  for  it  just  now." 

But  what  a  lonely  ocean  it  is !  Not  a  vessel,  not  a 
sail,  not  a  column  of  smoke  on  the  horizon! 

We  are  officially  German  on  this  ship,  and  the 
language  prevails.  Our  passenger-list  shows  that  we 
are  fully  half  German,  I  believe,  and  of  course  all  the 
officers  and  stewards  are  of  that  race.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  everybody  on  the  ship,  almost,  speaks 
or  tries  to  speak  the  language.  Persons  one  would 
never  suspect  of  such  a  thing  do  it,  and  some  of  them 
pretty  well,  too.  Even  I  got  reckless  and  shameless, 
and  from  a  long-buried  past  produced  a  few  German 
remarks  of  my  own.  They  were  only  about  ten-carat 
assay,  but  they  were  accepted  at  par.  I  remember 
an  old  and  very  dear  German  man  in  America  who 
once  said  to  me,  speaking  of  his  crops,  "Der  early 
corn,  he  iss  all  right;  aber  der  late  corn,  she's  bad!" 

My  German  is  not  as  good  as  his  English,  but  you'd 
think  it  was  better,  the  serious  way  these  stewards 
accept  it.  They  recognize  the  quality — they  have 
many  cargoes  of  the  same  brand. 

We  have  two  exceedingly  pretty  girls  on  this  ship — 
one  of  them  as  amiable,  as  gentle,  as  lovely  in  every 
way  as  she  is  pretty.     The  other — well,  she  is  pretty 

20 


Days   at  Sea 


enough  in  all  conscience,  and  she  may  be  amiable — I 
wouldn't  want  to  be  unfair  in  my  estimate — but  if 
she  is,  she  has  a  genius  for  concealing  it  from  the 
rest  of  the  passengers.  Her  chief  characteristic  be- 
sides her  comeliness  seems  to  be  a  conviction  that 
she  has  made  a  mistake  in  coming  with  such  a  crowd. 
We  can't  domesticate  that  girl — she  won't  mix 
with  us.     The  poor  old  Promoter,  one  of  the  kindliest 


K'!- 


GAVE    HIM    THE 
"  ICY    MITT  " 


creatures  alive,  approached  her  with  an  invitation  to 
read  aloud  a  small  selection  for  the  •  little  Ivincoln 
memorial  he  was  preparing.  She  declined  chillily — 
gave  him  the  "icy  mitt, "  the  Diplomat  said. 

21 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


"I  nevah  do  anything  on  shipboahd,"  she  declared, 
and  ignored  his  apologies. 

She  spends  most  of  her  time  disposed  in  a  ravish- 
ing fashion  in  a  steamer-chair,  reading  a  novel  or 
letting  the  volume  drop  listlessly  at  her  side,  with 
one  of  her  dainty  fingers  between  the  pages  to  mark 
the  place,  while  her  spirit  lives  in  other  worlds  than 
ours.  The  Promoter  says  she  is  cold  and  frigidly 
beautiful — a  winter  landscape.  But  then  the  Pro- 
moter is  a  simple,  forgiving  soul.  I  think  she  is  just 
flitter  and  frosting — ^just  a  Christmas-card.  A  ship 
like  this  is  democratic — it  has  to  be.  We  are  all  just 
people  here. 

It  is  also  cosmopolitan — it  has  to  be  that,  too,  with 
a  crowd  like  ours.  This  Sunday  evening  affords  an 
example  of  what  I  mean.  In  the  dining-room  fonv^ard 
there  are  religious  exercises — prayers  and  a  song 
service  under  the  direction  of  the  Promoter — a 
repetition,  no  doubt,  of  the  very  excellent  programme 
given  this  morning.  Far  aft,  on  the  quarter-deck,  a 
dance  is  in  progress,  under  the  direction,  I  believe, 
of  our  German  contingent;  while  amidships,  in  the 
''booze-bazaar, "  the  Reprobates  and  their  Godless 
friends  are  engaged  in  revelry,  probably  under  the 
direction  of  Satan.  The  ship  is  very  long,  and  the 
entertainments  do  not  conflict  or  compete.  One  may 
select  whatever  best  accords  with  his  taste  and  morals, 
or,  if  he  likes  variety,  he  may  divide  his  time.  Every- 
thing is  running  wide  open  as  this  luminous  speck  of 
life — a  small,  self -constituted  world — goes  throbbing 
through  the  dark. 


IV 

WE    BECOME    HISTORY 

WE  had  been  four  days  at  sea,  boring  our  way 
into  the  sunrise  at  the  rate  of  three  hundred  and 
sixty  miles  a  day,  when  we  met  the  "Great  Sight" — 
the  American  fleet  of  sixteen  ships  of  war  returning 
from  its  cruise  around  the  world. 

It  had  been  rumored  among  us  when  we  left  New 
York  that  there  was  a  possibility  of  such  a  meeting. 
It  was  only  a  possibility,  of  course,  for  even  a  fleet  is 
a  mere  speck  on  a  wide  waste  of  ocean,  and  with 
engines  on  both  sides  driving  at  full  speed  the  chances 
of  intersection  were  small. 

So  we  went  about  figuring  and  speculating  and 
worrying  the  officers,  who  were  more  anxious  over 
the  matter  than  we  were,  but  conservative,  never- 
theless. We  only  learned,  therefore,  or  rather  we 
guessed,  I  think,  that  our  Marconi  flash  was  travelling 
out  beyond  the  horizon,  and  the  loneliest  sea  imagin- 
able, trying  to  find  an  answering  spark. 

During  the  afternoon  of  the  Sunday  previously 
mentioned  a  sentence  on  the  blackboard,  the  first 
official  word,  announced,  with  a  German  flavor,  that 
it  was  ''not  quite  impossible"  that  the  meeting  would 
occur  next  morning,  and  this  we  took  to  mean  that 
wireless  communication  had  been  established,  though 
we  were  not  further  informed. 

23 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


There  was  a  wild  gale  during  the  night  and  a  heavy 
sea  running  at  daybreak,  but  the  sky  was  clear.  A 
few  stragglers  were  at  early  breakfast  when,  all  at 
once,  a  roll  of  drums  and  a  burst  of  martial  music 
brought  us  to  our  feet. 

We  did  not  need  any  one  to  tell  us  what  it  meant. 
"The  fleet!"  came  to  every  man's  lips,  and  a  moment 
later  we  were  on  deck.  Not  only  those  in  the  dining- 
room  came.  Sick  or  well,  bundled  together  somehow, 
from  every  opening  our  excursionists  staggered  forth, 
and,  climbing  to  the  sun-deck,  looked  out  across  the 
bridge  to  where  the  sunrise  had  just  filled  the  morning 
sky.  There  they  were — far,  faint,  and  blurred  at 
first,  but  presently  outlined  clear — stretched  across 
the  glowing  east,  lifting  and  tossing  out  of  the  morn- 
ing, our  sixteen  noble  vessels  on  their  homeward  way ! 

At  that  moment  I  think  there  was  not  one  on  our 
ship  who  did  not  feel  that  whatever  might  come,  now, 
the  cruise  was  a  success.  Foreign  lands  would  bring 
us  grand  sights,  no  doubt,  but  nothing  that  could 
equal  this.  We  realized  that,  fully,  and  whispered 
our  good-fortune  to  one  another  as  we  gazed  out  upon 
that  spectacle  of  a  lifetime. 

Viewed  across  our  bow,  the  vessels  appeared  to 
form  a  continuous  straight  line,  but  they  divided  into 
two  sections  as  they  came  on,  eight  vessels  in  each, 
and  passed  in  column  formation.  In  a  little  while 
we  were  close  to  them — they  were  just  under  our 
starboard  bow — their  upper  decks  black  with  men 
turned  out  in  our  honor.  We  waved  to  them  and  our 
band  played,  but  we  did  not  cheer.  We  were  too 
much  impressed  to  be  noisy,  nor  could  we  have  made 

24 


We  Become  History 


our  voices  heard  across  that  wild  shouting  sea.  So 
we  only  looked,  and  waved,  and  perhaps  wiped  our 
eyes,  and  some  of  us  tried  to  photograph  them. 

They  passed  in  perfect  formation.  Heavy  seas 
broke  over  them,  and  every  billow  seemed  to  sweep 
their  decks,  but  their  lines  varied  not  a  point  and  the 
separating  distances  remained  unchanged.  So  per- 
fect was  the  alignment  that  each  column  became  a 
single  vessel  when  they  had  left  us  behind. 

It  was  over,  all  too  soon.  Straight  as  an  arrow 
those  two  noble  lines  pierced  the  western  horizon, 
passed  through  it,  and  were  gone.  We  went  below 
then,  to  find  chairs  flying,  crockery  smashing,  and 
state-rooms  in  a  wreck.  It  was  the  rough  day  of  the 
trip,  but  we  declared  that  we  did  not  mind  it  at  all. 
By  wireless  we  thanked  Admiral  Sperry,  and  wished 
him  safe  arrival  home.  Then  presently  he  returned 
thanks,  and  good  wishes  for  our  journey  in  distant 
lands. 

We  meant  to  vote  resolutions  of  gratitude  to  our 
captain  that  night  at  dinner  for  his  skill  in  finding  the 
fleet.  But  it  was  our  rough  day,  as  I  have  mentioned, 
and  nobody  was  there  to  do  it — at  least,  there  was  not 
enough  for  a  real,  first-class,  able-bodied  resolution. 
We  did  it  next  evening — that  is,  to-night.  Between 
the  asparagus  and  the  pheasant  we  told  him  some 
of  the  nice  things  we  thought  of  him,  and  ended  up 
by  drinking  his  health,  standing,  and  by  giving  a 
great  "Hoch  soil  er  leben!"  in  real  German  fashion. 

We  were  vain  and  set  up,  and  why  not?  Had  we 
not  been  the  first  Americans  to  give  our  fleet  welcome 
home  ?    We  felt  that  we  had  become  almost  hivStory. 

25 


V 

INTRODUCING  THE  REPROBATES 

WE  are  a  week  at  sea  now,  and  have  been  making 
our  courtesy  to  the  sunrise  half  an  hour  earlier 
every  morning.  That  is  to  say,  we  have  gained  three 
hours  and  a  half,  and  when  the  first  bugle  blows  for 
half-past  seven,  and  commands  us  to  get  up  and  muss 
around  and  be  ready  for  the  next  bugle  half  an  hour 
later,  it  means  in  the  well-regulated  civilized  country 
we've  left  behind  that  it's  just  four  o'clock,  and  time 
to  turn  over  and  settle  down  and  really  enjoy  life. 
The  result  is  you  swear  at  the  bugler,  when  you  ought 
to  love  him  for  the  trouble  he  takes  to  get  you  up  in 
time  for  breakfast. 

After  breakfast,  the  deck.  It  is  good  to  walk 
around  and  around  the  promenade  these  fine  mornings 
down  here,  even  though  the  sea  keeps  billowy  and 
the  horizon  line  lifts  and  falls  with  its  majestic  swing. 
You  are  no  longer  disturbed  by  it.  Your  body  has 
adapted  itself  to  the  motion, and  sways  like  an  inverted 
pendulum.  You  feel  that  you  have  your  sea- legs 
almost  as  well  as  the  stewards,  and  this  makes  you 
proud  and  showy  before  the  other  passengers.  It  is 
February,  but  it  is  not  cold  down  in  this  violet,  semi- 
tropic  sea.  The  air  is  fresh  enough,  but  it  is  soft  and 
gratifying,  and  one  almost  imagines  that  he  can  smell 
flowers  in  it.     Perhaps  it  is  a  fact,  too,  for  we  are  not 

26 


Introducing  the  Reprobates 


far  from  land  now;  we  shall  reach  Madeira  to-morrow 
morning. 

Yet  somehow  the  thought  of  land  is  not  exciting. 
I  do  not  believe  any  of  us  are  eager  for  it.  We  are 
quite  restored  now,  even  the  Diplomat,  and  the  days 
on  shipboard  are  serene  and  pleasantly  satisfying. 

So  many  happy  things  go  to  make  up  the  day. 
It  is  refreshing  to  play  shuffleboard  on  the  after  deck 
with  Laura,  age  fourteen,  and  her  companion,  the 
only  other  girl  of  her  age  on  board.  It  is  inspiring 
to  hear  the  band  play  every  morning  at  ten  when  one 
is  not  too  close  to  the  strenuous  music.  I  suppose 
beating  a  bass  drum  and  cymbals  makes  muscle,  and 
the  man  does  not  realize  how  strong  he  is.  It  is 
diverting  to  drift  into  the  smoking-room — now  that 
I  do  not  mind  its  fragrance  any  more — and  watch  the 
Apostle  (so  christened  because  of  his  name  and 
general  build  and  inspired  look)  winning  money  from 
the  Colonel  at  piquet, while  the  Horse  Doctor  discusses 
the  philosophies  of  life  in  a  manner  at  least  pleasing 
to  the  unregenerates. 

I  should  add,  I  suppose,  that  the  Horse  Doctor  is 
not  really  that  by  profession,  but  having  been  dubbed 
so  one  day  by  his  fellow- Reprobates,  the  Apostle  and 
the  Colonel,  his  cheerful  reply:  "Yes,  I  expect  to  be 
taken  for  one — travelling,  as  I  do,  with  a  couple  of 
asses,"  fixed  the  title  for  him  permanently.  We  enjoy 
the  Reprobates.  They  are  so  ingenuous  in  th^ir 
morals,  and  are  corrupting  the  smoking-room  in  such 
a  frank,  unrestricted  way.  We  enjoy  their  arguments 
too,  they  are  so  free  and  personal.  We  disapprove 
of  the  Reprobates,  but  we  love  them  because  we  are 

27 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


human  and  born  in  sin,  and  they  stand  for  all  things 
we  would  like  to  do — if  we  dared. 

It  is  inviting  and  comfortable  almost  anywhere  on 
the  ship  these  days.  It  is  good  just  to  sit  in  the  sun 
and  dream ;  to  lean  over  the  rail  and  watch  the  little 
rainbow  that  travels  with  us,  the  white  lace  that  the 
ship  makes  in  its  majestic  sweep,  to  wander  back  to 
the  stern  and  follow  the  interminable  wake  of  the 
screw  as  it  stretches  back  beyond  the  horizon  line. 
Then  there  is  the  sunset;  it  was  wonderful  to-night. 
The  air  was  perfectly  clear,  the  sun  a  red  disk  going 
down  cleanly  cut  into  the  sea.  Laura  and  I  saw  it 
from  amidships,  looking  out  across  the  high  stern  of 
the  vessel  that  sank  now  below  the  horizon,  then 
lifted  into  the  sky.  Even  the  chief  engineer  and 
the  ship's  doctor  came  out  to  look  at  it,  and  told  us 
to  watch  for  the  green  sun  which  would  appear  the 
instant  after  setting.  Later — after  dinner,  I  mean — 
we  danced. 

They  have  put  a  stout  awning  over  the  quarter-deck 
and  strung  a  lot  of  electric  globes  there  so  that  when 
the  music  is  going  and  the  illumination  is  turned  on, 
the  place  is  gay  and  pretty  and  cosey,  and  those  of  us 
who  have  not  danced  for  twenty  years  or  more  begin 
to  sit  up  straighter  when  the  music  starts,  and  present- 
ly we  forget  that  all  is  vanity  and  life  a  sorry  mess  at 
best,  and  look  about  for  a  partner,  and  there  on  the 
wide,  lifting,  falling  quarter-deck  caper  away  the 
years.  It  is  not  so  much  wonder,  then,  that  the 
prospect  of  land  does  not  arouse  any  feverish  interest. 
We  are  willing  to  go  right  on  sailing  for  a  while  and 
not  bother  about  land  at  all. 

28 


VI 


A    LAND   OF    HEART  S    DESIRE 


IT  was  a  mistake,  however,  to  be  indifferent  to  Ma- 
deira. We  are  no  longer  so.  Whatever  enthusi- 
asm we  lacked  beforehand  we  have  acquired  now.  Of 
all  fair,  jewelled  islands  of  the  sea,  it  is  the  particular 
gem.  Not  one  of  us  on  this  ship  but  has  made  up  his 
mind  to  go  to  Madeira  again  some  day,  and  to  stay- 
there  and  live  happy  ever  after;  or,  if  not  during  life, 
to  try  to  exchange  a  corner  of  heaven  for  it  when  he 
dies. 

We  knew  nothing  about  Madeira  except  what  the 
little  prospectus  told  us,  and  the  day  before  arrival 
we  began  to  look  up  guide-book  information  on  the 
subject.  There  was  not  much  of  this  on  the 
ship;  I  suspect  that  there  is  not  much  anywhere. 
Madeira  was  known  to  the  Phoenicians,  of  course, 
that  race  of  people  who  knew  everything,  went  every- 
where, built  all  the  first  cities,  invented  all  the  arts, 
named  everything,  and  then  perished.     I  ought  to  be 

3  29 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


sorry  that  they  perished,  I  suppose,  but  I'm  not.     I've 
heard  enough  of  that  tribe  on  this  ship. 

The  Patriarch  is  stuffed  full  of  Phoenician  statistics, 
and  to  touch  any  line  of  historical  discussion  in  his 
hearing  is  like  tripping  over  a  cord  attached  to  a 
spring  gun.  He  is  as  fatal  as  an  Irishman  I  once 
knew  who  was  perfectly  adorable  until  some  question 
of  race  came  up.  Then  it  was  time  to  stand  from 
under.  According  to  Malone  there  was  originally 
but  one  race — ^the  Irish.  All  the  early  saints  were 
Irish ;  so  was  Abraham ;  so  was  Noah ;  so  was  Adam ; 
so  was — but  that  is  far  enough  back.  I  remember 
hearing  him  tell  one  night  how,  in  a  later  day,  when 
Alexander  the  Great  set  out  to  conquer  Asia,  he  first 
sent  emissaries  to  make  peace  with  Ireland  as  a  pre- 
caution against  being  attacked  in  the  rear. 

But  I  am  beginning  to  wander.  There  is  no  trace 
of  the  Phoenicians,  I  believe,  on  Madeira  to-day,  and 
the  early  history  of  the  island  is  mainly  mythical. 
When  ancient  Mediterranean  sailors  went  exploring 
a  little  into  the  Atlantic  and  saw  its  purple  form  rise 
on  the  horizon  they  decided  that  it  must  be  the  mouth 
of  hell,  or  at  all  events  the  abode  of  evil  creatures, 
and  hastily  turned  back.  One  account  says  that  in 
the  course  of  time  a  gentleman  named  Taxicab — 
probably  the  inventor  of  the  vehicle  later  known  by 
that  name — and  his  companion  were  shipwrecked  on 
Madeira  and  set  up  a  monument  in  celebration  of 
the  event.  I  don't  know  what  became  of  Taxicab 
and  his  friend  or  the  monument,  but  about  the  same 
time  it  was  discovered  again  by  a  Portuguese  named 
Zargo,  who  set  it  afire  as  a  means  of  clearing  the  land 

30 


A  Land  of  Heart's  Desire 


of  its  splendid  forests  and  kept  the  fires  going  for 
seven  years.* 

Zargo's  devastation  began  about  five  hundred  years 
ago,  and  the  island  has  required  all  those  centuries 
for  recovery.  It  may  be  added  that  he  believed 
Madeira  to  be  the  lost  Atlantis,  though  a  point  of 
land  thirty  miles  long  and  fifteen  miles  wide  could 
hardly  be  more  than  a  splinter  of  that  vanished 
continent.  More  likely  Madeira  and  the  fragmentary 
islets  about  it  formed  that  mythical  Ultima  Thule 
referred  to  by  Ulysses,  when,  according  to  Tennyson, 
he  said : 

"  My  purpose  holds 
To  sail  beyond  the  sunset  and  the  baths 
Of  all  the  western  stars,  until  I  die. 
It  may ^  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down: 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  Happy  Isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles  whom  we  knew." 

Perhaps  Madeira  was  indeed  a  home  of  gods  and 
favored  spirits  in  the  olden  days.  It  would  have 
been  a  suitable  place.  When  we  drew  near  enough 
to  see  its  terraced  hills — lofty  hills  they  are,  some  of 
them  in  the  interior  rising  to  a  point  six  thousand  feet 
above  the  sea — ^and  to  make  out  the  tiny  houses 
nestling  like  white  and  tinted  shells  against  the  green, 
we  changed  our  minds  about  being  willing  to  sail  past 
without  stopping,  and  when  at  last  we  swung  slowly 
into  the  Harbor  of  Funchal  we  felt  somehow  that 


*  By  referring  again  to  the  German  guide-book  I  find  that  the 
first  gentleman's  name  was  not  Taxicab,  but  as  that  is  nearer  to 
what  it  looks  like  than  anything  that  can  be  made  out  of  the  real 
name  I  will  let  it  stand. 

31 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


we  had  come  upon  an  island   enchantment   in  the 
middle  of  the  sea. 

For  everything  was  so  marvellous  in  its  beauty: 
the  green  hills,  terraced  almost  to  the  very  top;  the 
gorges  between,  the  little  fairy  city  just  where  the 
hills  flow  into  the  sea.  With  glasses  one  could  make 
out  flowering  vines  on  many  of  the  walls.  Even  with 
the  naked  eye,  somebody  presently  discovered  a  great 
purple  mass,  part  way  up  the  hillside.  The  glass 
showed  it  to  be  a  house  almost  covered  with  bougain- 
villea — our  first  vision  of  this  lavish  and  splendid 
flower  of  the  Mediterranean. 

As  we  drew  in  and  came  to  anchor,  we  saw  descend- 
ing upon  us  a  fleet  of  small,  curious  boats,  filled 
with  half-naked  men.  We  prepared  for  the  worst, 
but  they  merely  wanted  us  to  throw  coins  over  in 
the  liquid  azure  which  they  call  water  in  this  country, 
whereupon  their  divers  would  try  to  intercept  the 
said  coins  somewhere  between  the  top  and  bottom  of 
the  sea.  We  didn't  believe  they  could  do  it,  which 
was  poor  judgment  on  our  part. 

If  those  amphibians  did  not  always  get  the  coins, 
they  generally  did.  They  could  see  them  perfectly 
in  that  amazing  water,  and  they  could  dive  like  seals. 
Some  of  the  divers  were  mere  children — poor,  lean 
creatures  who  stood  up  in  their  boats  and  shouted  and 
implored  and  swung  their  arms  in  a  wild  invitation 
to  us  to  fling  our  money  overboard.  They  did  not 
want  small  money — at  least,  not  very  small  money — 
they  declined  to  dive  for  pennies.  Perhaps  they  could 
only  distinguish  the  gleam  of  the  white  metal.  Let 
a  nickel  or  a  dime  be  tossed  over  and  two  or  three 

32 


A  Land  of  Heart' s  Desire 


THEY    COULD    DIVE    LIKE    SEALS 


were  after  it  in  a  flash,  while  a  vehement  outbreak  of 
Portuguese  from  all  the  rest  entreated  still  further 
largess.  It  was  really  a  good  show,  and  being  the 
first  of  its  kind,  we  enjoyed  it. 

We  had  to  go  ashore  in  boats,  and  the  water  was 
not  smooth.  It  was  not  entirely  easy  to  get  into  the 
landing-boats,  and  it  was  still  less  easy  to  get  out 
at  the  stairs  which  ascended  to  the  stone  piers. 
Every  billow  would  throw  the  little  boats  six  or  eight 
feet  into  the  air,  and  one  had  to  be  pretty  careful  to 
step  just  at  the  right  instant  or  he  would  leave  one 
foot  on  a  high  step  and  the  other  in  the  boat,  far  below. 
Several  of  our  best  passengers  were  dismembered  in 
that  way. 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


Once  on  shore,  the  enchantment  took  hold  of  us 
again.  It  was  so  sunny  and  bright  and  the  streets 
were  so  attractive — all  paved  with  small  black  cobbles, 
set  in  the  neatest  and  most  careful  fashion.  Our  con- 
veyances were  waiting  just  at  the  end  of  the  pier, 
and  they  were,  I  believe,  the  most  curious  convey- 
ances in  the  world.  They  were  not  carriages  or  carts 
or  wheeled  vehicles  of  any  sort,  but  sleds — here  in 
a  land  of  eternal  summer — sleds  with  enclosed  tops, 
and  drawn  by  oxen. 

Their  drivers  were  grave,  whiskered  men  who 
motioned  us  to  get  in;  after  which  we  started,  and 
they  began  greasing  the  runners  as  we  went  along. 
They  did  this  by  putting  a  grease-soaked  rag  in  front 
of  a  runner  now  and  then  and  driving  over  it. 

I  don't  think  an  American  would  do  it  that  way. 
He  would  take  a  barrel  of  soft  soap  and  a  broom  and 
lubricate  the  whole  street.  Their  way  is  neater,  and 
about  as  effective,  I  suppose  ;  besides,  when  they 
have  been  doing  it  another  three  hundred  years  or 
so,  they  will  have  some  grease  on  these  streets,  too. 
Already  one  may  see  indications  of  it  here  and 
there. 

Our  course  was  uphill,  and  we  ascended  along  a 
panorama  of  sunny  life  and  tinted  flower-hung  walls 
to  the  outskirts  of  that  neatest  and  most  charming 
of  cities — continuously  expressing  our  delight  in  the 
general  attractiveness  of  everything:  the  wonder- 
fully laid  streets;  the  really  beautiful  sidewalks 
of  very  tiny  vari-colored  cobbles  all  set  in  perfect 
mosaic  patterns;  the  glow  and  bloom  of  summer 
everywhere.     We  admired  even  the  persistent  little 

34 


A  Land'^  of  Heart's  Desire 


beggars  who  ran  along  on  both  sides  of  the  sleds, 
throwing  camellias  into  our  laps,  crying  out,  "Penny! 
Penny!"  their  one  English  word — hopping,  dancing, 
beseeching,  and  refusing  to  be  comforted. 

We  gave  to  the  first  of  these  tormentors,  but  it  was 
not  a  good  way  to  get  rid  of  them.  It  was  like  put- 
ting out  molasses  to  satisfy  a  few  flies.  A  dozen  more 
were  around  us,  going  on  in  a  most  disturbing  manner. 
Our  driver  finally  dispersed  them  by  making  some 
terrific  motions  with  his  whip-handle. 

We  were  at  the  outskirts  at  last,  but  only  at  the 
beginning  of  the  real  climb.  A  funicular  railway 
takes  one  up  farther,  and  presently  we  are  ascending 
straight  to  Paradise,  it  seemed  to  us,  by  a  way  that 
led  through  a  perfect  wilderness  of  beauty — flower, 
foliage,  and  waving  green,  with  tiny  stucco  houses 
set  in  tangled  gardens  and  slopes  of  cane — ^while 
below  and  beyond  lay  the  city  and  the  harbor  and 
our  ship  at  anchor  on  the  violet  sea. 

Would  we  be  so  enchanted  with  the  magic  of  this 
Happy  Isle  if  it  were  not  our  first  landing  after  a  long 
winter  voyage,  which  if  not  stormy  was  at  all  events 
not  entirely  smooth?  Perhaps  not,  yet  I  think  there 
are  certain  essentials  of  beauty  and  charm  that  are 
fundamental.  The  things  we  dream  of  and  do  not 
believe  exist ;  the  things  that  an  artist  will  paint  now 
and  then  when  he  forgets  that  the  world  is  just  a  place 
to  live  and  toil  and  die  in,  and  not  really  to  be  happy 
in  at  all.  But  those  things  are  all  here  in  Madeira, 
and  when  we  learned  that  nobody  ever  gets  sick  here, 
and  that  everybody  gets  well  of  everything  he  happens 
to  have  when  he  comes,  we  said:   *' Never  mind  going 

35 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


on;  send  the  ship  home,  or  sink  it;  we  will  abide 
here  and  roam  no  more." 

At  the  end  of  the  funicular  there  was  still  more  hill 
to  climb,  and  one  could  either  do  it  afoot  or  be  carried 
up  in  a  hammock.  Most  of  us  young  people  did  it 
afoot,  allowing  enfeebled  men  of  eighteen  and  twenty 
the  comfort  of  the  hammocks.  As  they  passed  us 
we  commented  on  their  luxury,  and  made  it  otherwise 
interesting  for  them.  It  was  pleasant  enough  walking 
and  there  was  a  good  deal  to  see.  The  foliage  was 
interesting,  ranging  as  it  did  from  the  palm  of  the 
tropics  to  the  pine  of  the  northern  forests.  You  can 
raise  anything  in  Madeira,  except  money — there  is 
not  much  of  that,  and  things  are  cheap  accordingly. 
No  doubt  it  is  the  same  in  heaven,  but  I  am  getting 
ahead  of  my  story. 

We  lunched  at  the  top,  in  a  hotel  that  was  once  a 
convent  and  still  has  iron-barred  windows,  but  before 
luncheon  we  walked  out  for  the  view  to  a  little  plat- 
form which  seems  when  you  step  out  on  it  to  be  hang- 
ing in  the  air,  so  that  you  involuntarily  hesitate  and 
reach  for  something  firm.  All  the  distance  you  have 
climbed  in  the  ox-sleds,  by  the  funicular,  and  afoot 
drops  away  perpendicularly  at  your  feet,  and  you  are 
looking  down,  straight  down,  and  still  down,  to  what 
seem  fairy  tree-tops  and  a  wonderful  picture  valley 
through  which  a  tumbling  ribbon  of  water  goes  foam- 
ing to  the  sea.  It  is  the  most  sudden  and  dramatic 
bit  of  scenery  I  know. 

We  had  delicious  strawberries  at  our  luncheon — 
strawberries  that  required  no  sugar — and  a  good  many 
other  kinds  of  fruit — some  of  which  we  could  identify 

36 


A  Land  of  Heart's  Desire 


and  some  of  which  the  Reprobates  discussed  in  their 
usual  unrestrained  fashion,  calling  one  another  names 
that  were  at  once  descriptive  and  suited  to  the  subject 
in  hand.  There  were  pomegranates  and  guavas  and 
comquats  and  loquats;  also  there  was  Madeira  wine, 
of  course,  and  hereafter  I  am  going  to  know  some- 
thing about  native  wines  in  the  lands  we  visit  before 
I  begin  business — that  is,  wholesale  business.  But 
never  mind — ^let  it  go;  it  is  a  good  deal  like  sherry, 
only  it  tastes  better,  and  the  Reprobates  said — but 
as  I  mentioned  before,  let  it  go — it  really  does  not 
matter  now. 

We  descended  that  long,  paved,  greased  hill  in 
toboggans  that  are  nice,  comfortable  baskets  on  run- 
ners. They  hold  two  and  three,  according  to  size, 
and  you  get  in  and  two  men  take  you  in  hand,  and 
away  you  go.  You  go,  too.  A  distance  of  two  miles 
has  been  made  in  three  minutes  in  those  things.  I 
don't  think  we  went  as  fast  as  that,  but  it  was  plenty 
fast  enough  for  the  wild  delight  of  it,  and  if  I  had 
money  enough  and  time  enough  I  would  go  there 
and  slide  and  slide  away  the  eternal  summer  days. 

It  was  a  swift  panorama  of  flower  and  sunlit  wall 
and  distant  sea — ^the  soft  air  rushing  by.  Now  and 
then  we  would  whirl  past  a  carrier — a  brown,  bent 
man  with  one  of  those  great  sleds  on  his  shoulders, 
toiling  with  it  up  the  long,  steep  hill.  They  were 
marvellously  picturesque,  those  carriers,  but  I  wish 
they  wouldn't  do  it.  It  takes  some  of  the  joy  out  of 
the  slide  to  feel  that  somebody  is  going  to  carry  your 
toboggan  up  the  hill  on  his  back. 

We  shot  out  on  the  level  at  last,  and  started  on  a 

37 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


little  tour  of  the  town.  Laura  and  I  wandered  away 
alone,  and  stopped  at  little  shops,  and  tried  to  trans- 
act business,  and  finally  bought  a  clay  water-jug  for 
a  hundred  and  twenty  reis,  which  is  to  say  sixpence, 
which  is  to  say  twelve  cents.     Money  in  Madeira  is 


TM««tM   ^OfcAfcT 


TWO    MEN    TAKE    YOU    IN    HAND  AND  AWAY  YOU    GO 


calculated  in  reis,  just  as  it  is  in  the  Azores,  and  the 
sound  of  the  word  suddenly  recalled  the  visit  of  the 
Quaker  City  "Pilgrims"  to  those  islands,  and  the 
memory  of  Blucher's  disastrous  dinner-party. 

But  they  will  take  anything  that  looks  like  money 

38 


A  Land  of  Heart's  Desire 


in  Madeira,  rather  than  miss  a  trade,  and  when  a  per- 
son who  has  been  accustomed  to  calculating  dollars 
and  cents  is  suddenly  confronted  with  problems  of 
reis  and  pence  and  shillings  and  half-crowns  and 
francs,  he  goes  to  pieces  on  his  money  tables  and 
wonders  why  a  universal  currency  would  not  be  a  good 
thing. 

All  the  streets  in  Madeira  have  that  dainty  cobble 
paving,  and  all  the  sidewalks  are  laid  in  the  exquisite 
mosaic  which  makes  it  a  joy  to  follow  them.  The 
keynote  of  the  island  is  invitation.  Even  a  jail  we 
saw  is  of  a  sort  to  make  crime  attractive.  I  hasten 
to  add  that  we  examined  only  the  outside. 

We  were  adopted  by  a  guide  presently — a  boy 
whose  only  English  was  the  statement  that  he  could 
speak  it — and  were  directed  quietly  but  firmly  toward 
places  where  things  are  sold.  We  tried  to  impress 
upon  him  in  such  languages  as  we  could  think  of  that 
we  did  not  want  to  buy  anything,  and  that  we  did  not 
care  much  for  a  guide,  anyway.  We  said  we  wanted 
to  see  bougainvillea — a  lot  of  bougainvillea,  in  a  great 
mass  together,  as  we  had  seen  it  from  the  ship.  He 
nodded  excitedly  and  led  us  away,  but  it  was  only  to 
a  place  where  they  sold  embroideries  which  we  did 
not  care  for,  though  they  were  cheap  enough,  dear 
knows,  as  everything  is  cheap  here — everything  native 
at  least. 

When  our  guide  grasped  the  fact  at  last  that  we 
did  not  want  to  do  any  buying,  he  became  sad,  weak- 
ened gradually,  dropped  .behind,  accepted  a  penny, 
and  turned  us  over  to  another  guide  of  the  same  sort. 
We  wandered  about  Funchal  in  that  way  until  it  was 

39 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


time  to  embark,  adopted  by  one  guide  after  another, 
and  abandoned  to  our  fate  when  they  reaHzed  that 
we  were  not  worth  anything  in  the  way  of  commissions 
from  the  merchants  and  very  httle  in  any  form.  We 
did  get  a  guide  at  last  who  knew  where  the  bougain- 
villea  house  was,  but  it  was  too  late  then  to  go  to  it. 
It  did  not  matter;  there  were  flowers  enough  every- 
where and  bougainvillea  on  many  walls. 

The  place  did  not  lose  its  charm  with  close  acquaint- 
ance. It  seemed  entirely  unspoiled.  We  saw  no 
suggestion  of  modern  architecture  or  European  inno- 
vation— no  blot  anywhere,  except  a  single  motor-car 
— ^the  only  one,  I  believe,  in  Funchal.  There  is  but 
one  fly  in  the  ointment  of  Madeira  comfort — the  beg- 
gars. They  begin  to  beg  before  they  can  walk,  and 
they  call,  ''Penny!  Penny!"  before  they  can  lisp  the 
sacred  name  of  "Mamma."  However,  one  good 
thing  has  come  of  our  experience  with  them.  They 
have  prepared  us  for  beggars  elsewhere.  We  are 
hardened,  now — at  least,  we  think  we  are.  The 
savor  of  pity  has  gone  out  of  us. 

But  I  was  speaking  of  architecture.  Without 
knowing  anything  on  the  subject,  I  should  say  that 
the  architecture  of  Madeira  is  a  mixture  of  Spanish 
and  Moorish,  like  that  of  Mexico.  Only  it  is  better 
than  anything  in  Mexico.  From  the  ship,  the  stucco, 
tile-roofed  city  is  flawless;  and  as  we  steam  away, 
and  night  comes  down  and  lights  break  out  and 
become  a  jewelled  necklace  along  the  water's  edge, 
our  one  regret  is  that  we  are  leaving  it  all  behind. 

Good-bye  to  Madeira — a  gentle  place,  a  lovely  place 
— a  place  to  live  and  die  in. 

40 


DID    A    SORT   OP  FANDAROLB 


VII 


A    DAY   TO    OURSELVES 


WE  had  another  full  day  at  sea,  after  Madeira — a 
day  of  reflection  and  reminiscence,  for  each 
of  us  had  some  special  joy  to  recall.  Perhaps  that 
of  the  Diplomat  was  as  picturesque  as  any.  He  told 
it  to  me  privately,  but  a  thing  like  that  should  not 
be  allowed  to  remain  concealed  forever;  besides,  the 
young  lady  is  in  darkest  Germany  now  and  does  not 
know  English,  anyway.  That  last-named  fact  was 
responsible  for  the  incident. 

The  Diplomat  had  just  landed  at  the  bottom  of 
the  slide,  he  said,  when  two  of  our  party — Americans 
— came  along  with  a  bright-faced  and  quite  stylish- 

41 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


looking  German  girl  who  was  not  having  a  very  good 
time  because  they  knew  no  German  and  she  no  Eng- 
lish. It  was  clearly  a  case  for  the  Diplomat,  who  is 
an  unattached  person,  full  of  the  joy  of  travel  and 
familiar  with  all  languages,  living  and  dead. 

He  had  not  been  presented  to  the  young  German 
person  on  the  ship,  but  he  had  seen  her  now  and  again 
in  company  with  an  older,  rather  plain  -  looking 
woman,  very  likely  her  maid.  No  doubt  the  young 
woman  was  a  countess,  or  a  baroness,  or  at  all  events 
a  person  of  station  and  importance.  Politely  enough 
he  proffered  his  services  as  escort,  was  accepted,  and 
the  two  set  out  gayly  to  enjoy  the  halcyon  Madeira 
afternoon. 

She  was  a  most  sociable  companion,  the  Diplomat 
said,  ready  for  anything  that  resembled  a  good  time. 
They  visited  places  of  interest;  they  dropped  into 
little  shops;  he  bought  flowers  for  her;  they  had 
refreshments  here  and  there — dainty  dishes  and 
pleasant  Madeira  wines — keeping  up,  meantime,  their 
merry  German  clatter.  They  became  quite  gay,  in 
fact,  and  whenever  they  met  any  of  the  ship  party, 
which  they  did  frequently  enough,  the  Diplomat,  as 
he  confessed  to  me,  became  rather  vain  and  showy — 
set  his  hat  on  one  side  and  did  a  sort  of  fandarole, 
accompanying  his  step  with  operatic  German  airs. 
At  such  moments  she  even  took  his  hand  and  entered 
into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion. 

Altogether  it  was  a  charming  experience,  and  they 
were  both  sorry  when  it  was  time  to  return  to  the  ship. 
Arriving  there  they  were  met  by  the  older,  plain- 
looking  woman,   who   greeted   his   companion   with 

42 


A  Day  to   Ourselves 


words  that  were  pleasant  enough,  gentle  enough,  but 
which  partook  of  the  nature  of  a  command.  Then 
it  dawned  upon  the  Diplomat;  it  was  not  the  older, 
plain-looking  woman  who  was  the  maid! 


THEN    IT    DAWNED    UPON    THE    DIPLOMAT 


''I  would  have  done  it  just  the  same,"  he  explained 
to  me  in  a  dark  comer  of  the  deck,  after  dinner,  "just 
the  same,  of  course,  being  a  gentleman,  only  under 
the  circumstances  I  might  have  cut  out  the  cakewalk 
and  the  music." 

A  ship  is  a  curious  place  altogether;    a  place  of 

43 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


narrow  limits  and  close  contact,  yet  full  of  subter- 
ranean depths  from  which  surprises  may  develop  at 
any  moment.  The  Chief  Engineer,  to  whom  I  sit 
next  at  meals,  often  quotes  meditatively, 

"i\  ship  it  is  a  funny  thing. 
It  sails  upon  the  sea — " 

The  Chief  does  not  recall  the  rest  of  the  stanza, 
but  we  all  admit  the  truth  of  what  he  does  remember. 
Ship  life  on  the  whole  is  not  like  other  life ;  ship  char- 
acteristics do  not  altogether  resemble  those  on  land. 

Take  the  "Porpoise,"  for  instance.  I  have  no 
doubt  that  the  Porpoise  on  land  is  a  most  excellent 
and  industrious  business  man,  more  or  less  absorbed 
in  the  daily  round  of  his  ventures — a  happy-hearted 
contented  Hebrew  person,  fairly  quiet  (it  doesn't 
seem  possible,  but  I  am  willing  to  believe  it),  on  the 
whole  a  good  citizen,  satisfied  if  his  name  appears  now 
and  then  in  the  local  paper,  when  he  gets  in  some  new 
line  of  goods  or  makes  an  improvement  on  his  home. 

But  on  shipboard  the  Porpoise  is  just — a  porpoise. 
He  is  fat,  as  his  name  implies,  and  describes  revolu- 
tions of  the  ship,  blowing  constantly.  At  no  time 
of  day  and  in  no  part  of  the  ship  will  you  be  safe  from 
the  Porpoise.  He  is  from  an  interior  town  —  an 
unimportant  town,  by  its  census  and  location,  but 
it  has  become  important  on  this  vessel. 

He  has  instructed  us  upon  other  subjects,  too. 
Nothing  is  too  complicated,  or  too  deep,  or  too 
abstruse  for  the  Porpoise.  He  will  attack  any  ques- 
tion at  sight,  and  he  will  puff  and  spout  and  describe 
circles  and  wallow  in  his   oratory,   and  follow  his 

44 


A  Day  to   Ourselves 


audience  about  until  he  has  swept  the  deck  clean. 
Yet  we  love  that  Porpoise,  in  spite  of  everything. 
He  is  so  happy  and  harmless  and  gentle.  It  is  only 
because  he  is  on  a  ship  that  he  is  a  bore. 

Also,  we  love  the  "Mill."  The  Mill  is  a  woman — 
a  good  woman — one  of  the  kindliest  souls  on  earth, 
I  suspect,  and  her  mouth  is  her  warrant  for  her  name. 
It  goes  all  the  time,  but  it  does  not  deal  with  important 
things.  Indeed,  nothing  is  too  unimportant  for  her 
hopper,  and  she  grinds  exceeding  small.  Just  now, 
for  an  hour  or  so,  she  has  been  explaining  that  she 
did  not  sleep  very  well  last  night,  and  minutely 
cataloguing  the  reasons  why.  She  will  keep  it  up 
for  another  hour,  and  then  if  somebody  hasn't  dropped 
her  overboard  she  will  dig  up  something  else  of  equal 
value  and  go  right  on,  refreshed  and  rejoicing  in  the 
consciousness  of  well-doing. 

The  Mill  would  not  act  this  way  at  home — she 
would  not  have  time.  It  is  only  because  she  is  on  a 
ship  where  everybody  is  idle  and  irresponsible  and 
"different,"  and  likely  to  be  peculiar.  As  Laura, 
age  fourteen,  said  to  me  to-day — paraphrasing  the 
words  of  the  old  Quaker  spinster  to  her  sister,  "I 
think  everybody  on  this  ship  is  peculiar  except  thee 
and  me,  and  sometimes  I  think  thee  is  a  little  peculiar." 
That  expresses  the  situation,  and  on  the  whole  we 
enjoy  it.  We  are  like  the  little  boy  whose  reputation 
for  being  a  strange  child  did  not  interfere  with  his 
happiness.  "Gee,  ain't  it  great  to  be  crazy!"  was 
his  favorite  remark,  and  whatever  we  may  be  on  this 
ship,  we  are  content  with  the  conditions,  and  would 
not  change  them,  even  if  we  could. 

4  45 


VIII 

OUT    OF    THE    SUNRISE 

I  HAVE  seen  the  shores  of  Africa  and  Spain!  The 
bath  steward  came  very  early,  this  morning — 
earlier  than  usual.  He  had  his  reasons,  but  I  had 
forgotten  and  was  sleepy,  so  I  said  *'No,"  and  tried 
to  doze  again.  Then  all  at  once  from  the  deck  there 
arose  a  swell  of  music — rich,  triumphant  music — 
an  orchestration  of  "Holy,  Holy,  Holy" — such  a 
strain  as  one  might  expect  to  hear  if  the  eternal  gates 
should  swing  ajar.  I  remembered,  then ;  it  was  Sunday 
morning  —  but  there  was  something  more.  Land! 
The  land  that  lies  on  the  other  side  of  the  ocean! 

In  a  moment  I  was  at  my  port-hole,  which  is  on  the 
starboard  side.  We  had  changed  our  course  and  were 
bearing  more  to  the  north.  Directly  in  front  of  me 
the  sun  was  rising.  The  east  was  a  mass  of  glowing 
outlines — golden  clouds  and  hilltops  mingled.  It  was 
the  Orient — that  is  what  it  was — the  Far  East ;  the 
sun  rising  over  Africa!  Something  got  hold  of  me 
then— I  hardly  know  what.  Certainly  I  was  not 
unhappy;  but  then  it  was  all  so  sudden  and  spectac- 
ular, and  I  had  waited  for  it  so  long. 

I  do  not  remember  how  I  got  dressed;  only  for 
a  moment  at  a  time  could  I  drag  myself  away  from 
that  port-hole.  The  sun  rose  higher— the  outlines  of 
Morocco  became  more  distinct,  but  they  did  not  lose 

46 


Out   of  the  Sunrise 


their  wonder  of  color — their  glory  of  purple  and  gold.  I 
realized  now  that  the  prospectuses  had  not  exaggerated 
the  splendor  of  the  East,  even  on  their  gorgeous  covers 
— that  they  could  not  do  so  if  they  tried.  By  the 
time  I  was  on  deck  we  were  running  close  enough  to 
the  lofty  shores  to  make  out  villages  here  and  there 
and  hilltop  towers — the  habitation  and  the  watch- 
towers  of  the  Moors.  How  eagerly  and  minutely 
one  scanned  these  with  the  glass  to  distinguish  the 
first  sign  of  Oriental  life — to  get  a  glimpse  of  the 
reality  of  what  had  so  long  been  but  a  romance  and  a 
dream.  It  was  those  people  who  had  conquered 
Spain  and  built  the  Alhambra. 

What  was  going  on  inside  those  curious  flat- 
topped  houses  and  those  towers  ?  Marvellous  matters, 
no  doubt,  that  had  to  do  with  nargileh  and  magic  and 
sci miters  and  flying  carpets  and  scarcely  imperceptible 
nods  to  the  executioner  who  always  hovered  among  the 
draperies  in  the  background.  The  Reprobates  ap- 
peared and  declared  there  was  no  romance  anywhere 
in  sight  and  never  had  been  in  that  direction;  that 
Morocco  was  just  a  place  of  wretched  government 
and  miserable  people  whose  chief  industries  were  lazi- 
ness and  crime.  There  are  moments  when  I  would 
be  willing  for  this  ship  to  sink  to  properly  punish 
the  Reprobates. 

The  Diplomat  was  better.  He  said  there  was  as 
much  romance  and  magic  over  there  as  ever,  and  more 
executioners;  and  the  Diplomat  knows.  We  would 
pass  Ceuta,  the  African  Pillar  of  Hercules,  before  long, 
he  told  us.  The  other  pillar  was  the  Rock  of  Gibral- 
tar, which  lay  still  farther  ahead. 

47 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


We  went  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  ship  presently, 
for  we  were  overlooking  the  Bay  of  Trafalgar,  where 
a  little  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago  Horatio  Nelson 
died,  after  convincing  the  combined  navies  of  France 
and  Spain  that  it  required  something  besides  numbers 
to  win  a  victory.  Nelson  went  into  that  fight  with 
thirty-two  vessels,  little  and  big,  against  forty  of  the 
combined  fleets.  He  hoisted  the  signal,  *' England 
expects  every  man  to  do  his  duty,"  and  every  man 
did  it.  One  half  of  the  combined  fleets  struck  their 
colors,  and  the  rest  made  off,  or  sank,  and  with  them 
went  Napoleon  Bonaparte's  scheme  for  invading 
England. 

We  looked  out  on  the  placid  water,  laughing  in 
the  Sunday  morning  sunlight,  and  tried  to  imagine 
those  vanished  fleets — stately  ships  of  the  line  with 
their  banks  of  guns ;  smart  frigates  and  rakish  cutters 
— all  that  splendid  concourse  of  black  hull  and  tower- 
ing canvas,  and  then  the  boom  and  the  flash  of  guns — 
the  conflict  and  the  glory  of  that  morning  so  long  ago. 
This  much  was  real,  and  it  was  romance;  not  even 
the  Reprobates  could  brush  away  the  bloom. 

The  captain  came  by  and  pointed  ahead  to  Tarifa, 
where  the  Barbary  pirates  a  long  time  ago  levied 
tribute  on  the  merchants  and  added  the  word  "tariff" 
to  the  dictionary.  Their  old  castle  has  fallen  into 
ruin,  but  the  old  industry  still  thrives,  under  the  same 
name.  Then  we  went  back  to  starboard  again  for  a 
look  at  Tangier,  where,  alas,  we  were  not  to  land, 
because  Algiers  had  been  provided  for  us  instead. 

But  now  Gibraltar,  the  crouching  lion  of  Trafalgar, 
had  risen  from  the  sea.     The  English  call  it  "The 

48 


Out   of  the  Siinrist 


Rock,"  and  that  is  just  what  it  looks  like — a  big 
bowlder  shaped  like  a  sleeping  lion — its  head  toward 
Spain,  its  tail  toward  Africa.  I  think  most  persons 
have  an  idea  that  the  Rock  lies  lengthwise,  east  and 


BUT    NOW    GIBRALTAR,    THE    CROUCHING    LION    OF    TRAFALGAR, 
HAD    RISEN    FROM    THE    SEA 


west — I  know  I  thought  so.  Instead  it  lies  north  and 
south,  and  is  really  a  stone  finger  pointed  by  Spain 
toward  the  African  coast.  It  is  Great  Britain's  pride 
— ^it  has  cost  enough  for  her  to  be  proud  of  it — ^and  is 
her  chief  stronghold. 

About  it  are  gathered  her  warships  of  to-day — 
dark,  low-browed  fighters  like  our  own — any  one  of 
them  able  to  send  to  the  bottom  a  whole  fleet  like 
Nelson's  and  the  combined  fleets  besides.  They  look 
quiet  enough,  ugly  enough,  and  drowsy  enough,  now. 

49 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


So  does  Gibraltar,  but  it  is  just  as  well,  perhaps, 
not  to  twist  the  Lion's  tail.  We  had  no  intention 
of  doing  so,  and  I  don't  see  why  they  were  so  afraid 
of  us.  They  wouldn't  let  us  visit  their  shooting- 
galleries —  the  galleries  where  they  keep  their  big 
guns,  I  mean;  they  wouldn't  let  us  climb  the  Rock 
on  the  outside;  they  wouldn't  even  let  us  visit  an 
old  Moorish  castle  which  stands  about  half-way  up. 
Perhaps  they  thought  we  would  spike  their  guns,  or 
steal  the  castle,  or  blow  up  the  Rock  with  infernal 
machines. 

They  did  let  us  take  carriages  and  drive  along  the 
main  streets  of  the  cit^- ,  through  a  park  or  two  and 
out  to  Europa  Point,  I  think  that  was  the  place.  We 
were  interested,  but  not  enthusiastic.  After  Madeira, 
one  does  not  go  mad  over  the  beauties  of  Gibraltar. 
The  vehicles  were  funny  little  affairs — Spanish,  I 
suppose ;  the  driver  spoke  the  English  of  Gibraltar — 
an  English  which  nobody  outside  of  Gibraltar,  and 
only  a  few  people  there,  can  understand;  the  road 
was  good;  the  flowers — bluebells,  yellow  daisies,  dan- 
delions and  heliotrope — all  wild — were  profuse  and 
lavishly  in  bloom  everywhere  along  the  way.  Had  we 
come  direct  to  Gibraltar,  we  should  have  raved  over 
these  things  like  enough,  and  we  did  rave  a  little,  but 
it  was  a  sort  of  placid  ecstasy.  Military  hospitals 
and  barracks  and  officers'  quarters  are  not  the  kind 
of  scenery  to  excite  this  crowd. 

It  was  different,  though,  when  we  got  to  Europa 
Point.  There,  on  one  side  rose  the  great  Rock 
abruptly  from  the  sea,  while  before  us  stretched  the 
Mediterranean,  all  blue  and  emerald  and  iridescent, 

50 


Out   of  the  Sunrise 


like  a  great  fire-opal  in  the  sun.  It  was  our  first 
glimpse  of  the  water  along  w^hose  shores  began  the 
history  and  the  religions  of  more  than  half  the  world. 
"The  grand  object  of  all  travel  is  to  see  the  shores  of 
the  Mediterranean,"  said  Dr.  Johnson,  and  there  were 
some  of  us  who  not  until  that  moment,  I  think,  fully 
grasped  the  fact  that  this  object,  this  dream  of  a 
lifetime,  was  about  to  be  accomplished. 

The  Patriarch  forgot  the  Phoenicians  for  a  little  and 
began  to  talk  about  Athens  and  of  Mars  Hill  from 
which  St.  Paul  had  preached,  though  he  added  present- 
ly that  it  was  quite  certain  St.  Paul's  grandfather  had 
been  a  Phoenician;  the  Diplomat  quoted  something 
about  his  soul  being  '  *  far  away  sailing  on  the  Vesu vian 
Bay";  the  Porpoise  began  to  meditate  audibly  how 
far  it  was  in  a  straight  line  to  Jerusalem;  the  Mill 
ground  a  quiet  little  grist  about  flannels  she  expected 
to  wear  in  Egypt ;  even  the  Reprobates  were  subdued 
and  thoughtful  in  the  face  of  this  watery  theatre  that 
had  held  the  drama  of  the  ancient  world. 

We  drove  back  to  the  town,  separated,  and  wan- 
dered about  where  fancy  led  us.  Laura  and  I  had  a 
little  business  with  the  American  consul,  who  is  an 
example  of  what  an  American  consul  ought  to  be :  a 
gentleman  who  is  a  consul  by  profession  and  not  by 
party  favor,  being  the  third  Sprague  in  line  who  has 
held  the  post.  Through  him  we  met  a  most  interest- 
ing person,  one  who" brought  us  in  direct  contact,  as  it 
were,  with  that  old  first  party  of  Pilgrims  to  make 
the  Oriental  cruise.  Michael  Beiiunes  was  his  name, 
guide  and  courier  to  Mark  Twain  and  his  party,  forty- 
two  years  ago. 

51 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Benunes  must  have  been  a  handsome  creature  in 
those  days;  he  is  a  handsome  creature  still  —  tall, 
finely  featured,  with  flowing  black  hair  —  carrying 
his  sixty-five  years  as  lightly  as  wind-flowers — gay, 
voluble,  enthusiastic — ready  for  the  future,  glorying 
in  the  past.  He  took  us  to  a  coffee-house  and  enter- 
tained us,  and  held  us  enthralled  for  an  hour  or  more 
with  his  tide  of  eloquence  and  information.  He  told 
us  of  the  trip  he  had  made  through  Spain  with  the 
"Innocents";  of  many  other  trips  in  lands  near  and 
far.  He  told  us  of  the  things  in  Gibraltar  we  had  not 
seen — of  the  galleries  and  the  monkey -pit;  also,  of 
the  wonderful  monkeys  themselves  who  inhabit  the 
Rock  and  are  intelligent  almost  beyond  belief — who 
refrain  from  speaking  English  only  because  they  are 
afraid  of  having  red  coats  and  caps  put  on  them  and 
being  made  into  soldiers. 

Gibraltar  was  once  a  part  of  Africa,  according  to 
tradition,  and  the  monkeys  remained  on  the  Rock 
when  the  separation  took  place.  But  guides  know 
that  a  subterranean  passage  from  the  bottomless 
monkey -pit  connects  the  Rock  with  Africa  to  this 
day;  also  that  the  monkeys  travel  back  and  forth 
through  it  and  keep  posted  on  warfare  and  new 
inventions,  in  preparation  for  a  time  when  they  shall 
be  ready  to  regain  their  lost  empire,  and  that  some- 
times at  dusk,  if  one  lies  hidden  and  remains  very 
quiet,  he  may  overhear  them  discuss  these  things, 
as  in  the  failing  twilight  they  ''walk  together,  holding 
each  other's  tails." 

We  could  have  listened  all  night  to  Benunes,  for  he 
made  the  old  time  and  still  older  traditions  real  to 

52 


Out   of  the  Sunrise 


us.  And  perhaps  Benunes  would  have  talked  all  night, 
for  he  declared — and  we  believed  him — that  he  could 
talk  for  five  hours  without  a  break.  Naturally  I 
expected  to  pay  the  score  in  the  coffee-house  and  to 


WE    COULD    HAVE    LISTENED    ALL    NIGHT    TO    BENUNES 


make  some  special  acknowledgment  to  Benunes  for 
his  time.  Not  at  all;  he  called  the  waiter  with  a 
flourish,  threw  down  more  than  enough  money  and 
told  him  to  keep  the  change,  regretting  volubly  that 
we  could  not  partake  further  of  his  hospitality.  We 
should  have  the  freedom  of  the  city — of  everything — 
he  said,  when  we  came  again.  Ah  me!  I  suspect 
there  is  only  one  Befiunes,  and  that  he  belongs  to  a 
time  which  will  soon  vanish  away. 

53 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


We  went  through  the  town — almost  a  closed  town, 
because  it  was  Sunday,  and  not  an  inviting  town,  I 
think,  at  best.  Here  and  there  were  narrow^  streets 
that  wound  up  or  down,  yet  were  only  mildly  seduc- 
tive. But  it  is  a  cosmopolitan  town — the  most  cosmo- 
politan town  on  earth,  perhaps.  Every  kind  of  money 
is  in  use  there — every  language  is  spoken. 

"Picture  postals  twelve  for  a  quarter!"  was  the 
American  cry  that  greeted  us  at  every  turn.  If  we 
had  been  English  it  would  have  been  "tw^elve  for  a 
shilling,"  or  if  German  ''zwolf  fur  ein  Mark''  no 
doubt.  They  do  not  mistake  nationalities  in  Gibral- 
tar— they  have  all  kinds  to  study  from.  Moors  we 
saw — black,  barelegged,  and  gayly  attired — a  taste 
of  the  Orient  we  were  about  to  enter — and  if  there  w^ere 
any  nationalities  we  did  not  see  in  this  motley- 
thronged  Mediterranean  gateway  I  do  not  recall  them 
now.  We  bought  a  few"  postal  cards,  and  tw^o  fans 
with  bull -fights  on  them,  but  unlike  the  Quaker  City 
"  Pilgrims  "  we  bought  no  gloves. 

I  did  look  at  certain  stylish  young  creatures  who 
passed  now  and  then,  and  wondered  if  one  of  them 
might  not  be  the  bewitching  saleslady  who  had  sold 
those  gloves.  And  then  I  remembered:  she  would 
not  be  young  and  bewitching  any  more;  she  would 
be  carrying  the  burden  and  the  record  of  many  years. 
Unlike  the  first  ''Pilgrims,"  too,  we  did  not  hear  the 
story  of  the  ''Queen's  Chair."  That  was  worn  out, 
at  last,  and  exists  to-day  only  in  the  guide-books.  We 
drove  over  to  Spanish  Town  by  and  by,  but  it  was 
still  less  inviting  over  there,  so  we  drove  back,  passed 
out  through  the  great  gates  w^hich  close  every  evening 

54 


Out  of  the  Sunrise 


at  sunset,  and  waited  at  the  pier  for  the  little 
tender,  for  it  was  near  evening  and  we  were  through 
with  Gibraltar  —  ready  for  the  comfort  of  the 
ship. 

It  is  a  curious  place — a  place  of  a  day's  interest 
for  the  traveller — of  enormous  interest  to  the  military 
world.  For  two  hundred  years  it  has  been  maintained 
with  English  blood  and  treasure,  until  it  has  become 
the  most  costly  jewel  of  that  lavish  kingdom.  There 
are  those  to-day — Englishmen — who  say  it  is  not 
worth  the  price — that  it  is  no  longer  worth  any  price — 
and  they  advocate  returning  it  to  Spain.  No  army 
could  take  it,  and  no  army  wants  to  take  it — nothing 
could  be  gained  by  taking  it  any  more.  But  it  is  one 
of  England's  precious  traditions,  and  it  will  take 
another  two  hundred  years  of  vast  maintenance  be- 
fore England  will  let  that  tradition  go. 

There  were  papers  on  the  tender,  London  and  Paris 
journals,  but  the  only  American  news  was  that  Con- 
gress had  been  advised  against  tinkering  with  the 
tariff.  That  did  not  interest  us.  Had  we  not  been 
face  to  face  with  the  headquarters  of  tariff  that  very 
morning,  and  heard  the  story  of  how  that  noble 
industry  was  bom?  This  later  item  was  mere  de- 
tail. 

Back  on  the  ship,  looking  at  the  lion  couchant 
while  the  twilight  falls  and  the  lights  come  out  along 
its  base.  There  is  no  harshness  now.  The  lion's  skin 
has  become  velvet — it  is  a  veritable  lion  asleep  among 
fireflies.  We  lift  anchor  and  steam  slowly  into  the 
Mediterranean.  The  lion  loses  its  form,  becomes  a 
dark   wedge,    the   thin   edge   toward   Spain.     Night 

55 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


deepens  as  we  creep  farther  around ;  the  wedge  short- 
ens, contracts  to  a  cone,  a  pyramid — the  level  sea 
changes  to  a  desert.  The  feeling  somehow  grows 
that  Africa  has  reclaimed  its  own — the  Lion  of  Eng- 
land has  become  a  pyramid  of  the  sands. 


IX 

EARLY  MEDITERRANEAN  EXPERIENCES 

OUR  first  day  in  the  Mediterranean  was  without 
a  flaw.  It  was  a  quiet,  sunlit  day — just  pleas- 
antly warm — the  ship  steady  as  a  rock  on  that  lumi- 
nous, level  sea.  No  wonder  the  ancients  did  not  want 
to  leave  these  placid  tides  and  venture  out  upon  the 
dark  tossing  Atlantic  which  they  could  see  foaming 
just  beyond  the  Pillars  of  Hercules.  No  wonder  they 
peopled  those  hungry  wastes  with  monsters  and  evil 
spirits.  Here,  on  this  tranquil  sea,  there  were  no  un- 
familiar dangers.  The  summer  shores  that  shut  them 
in  held  all  their  world — a  golden  world  of  romance 
wherein  gods  mingled  with  the  affairs  of  men ;  where 
fauns  and  hamadryads  flitted  through  the  groves; 
where  nereids  and  tritons  sported  along  the  waves. 

We  have  all  day  and  night  to  get  to  Algiers — now 
less  than  three  hundred  miles  away — so  we  are  just 
loafing  along  making  wide  circles — "to  test  the  com- 
pass," one  of  the  officers  said  a  while  ago.  I  did  not 
know  they  had  to  test  compasses,  and  I'm  rather 
doubtful  about  the  matter,  still.  I  suspect  that 
officer  is  enjoying  himself  quietly  at  our  expense.  I 
suspect  it,  because  he  is  the  same  officer  who  told  the 
Credulous  One  the  other  day  when  the  ship  was  rolling 
heavily,  that  the  jarring,  beating  sound  we  heard 
every  now  and  then  was  made  by  the  ship  running 

57 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


over  whales.  The  noise  was  really  raade  by  the 
screw  lifting  out  of  the  w^ater,  and  pounding  the 
surface  with  its  blades,  but  the  Credulous  One,  who 
is  a  trusting  soul — a  stout  lady  of  middle  age  and 
gentle  spirit — believed  the  w^hale  story  and  repeated 
it  around  the  ship.  She  said  how  many  whales  there 
must  be  down  here,  and  pitied  them  whenever  she 
heard  that  cruel  sound. 

That  officer  came  along  again,  a  moment  ago,  and 
told  us  that  the  mountains  nearest  are  called  the  Sierra 
de  Gata,  which  sounds  true.  Somewhere  beyond  them 
lies  Grenada  and  the  Alhambra,  and  there,  too,  is 
the  old,  old  city  of  Cordova,  capital  of  the  Moorish 
kings,  and  for  three  hundred  years  one  of  the  greatest 
centres  of  commerce  in  the  world.  But  these  things 
are  only  history.  What  we  care  for  on  a  day  like 
this  is  invention — romance — and  remembering  that 
somewhere  beyond  that  snowy  rim  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  wandered  through  the  fields  of  fancy  and  the 
woods  of  dream  makes  us  wish  that  we  might  anchor 
along  those  shores  and  follow  that  vagrant  quest. 

I  drifted  into  the  smoking-room  and  mentioned 
these  things  to  the  Reprobates,  but  they  did  not  seem 
interested.  They  had  the  place  all  to  themselves  and 
the  Doctor  was  dozing  in  one  comer — between  naps 
administering  philosophy  to  the  Colonel  and  the  Apos- 
tle, who  were  engaged  in  their  everlasting  game  of 
piquet.  He  roused  up  when  I  came  in  to  deal  out  a 
few  comforting  remarks. 

**What  do  they  care  for  scenery,  or  romance,"  he 
said,  ''or  anything  else  except  to  gamble  all  day? 
All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  look  at  them  to  get  an 

58 


Early  Mediterranean  Experiences 

inventory  of  their  characters.  Just  look  at  the  Colonel 
for  instance;  did  you  ever  see  a  better  picture  of 
Captain  Kidd  ?  Made  his  money  out  of  publishing  the 
Bible  without  reading  it  and  thinks  he  must  go  to  the 
Holy  Land  now  to  square  himself.  And  the  Apostle, 
there — look  at  him!  Look  at  his  shape — why,  he's 
likely  to  blow  up,  any  time.  Some  people  think  these 
are  patients  of  mine.  Nice  advertisement,  a  pair 
like  that!" 

I  thought  the  Doctor  a  trifle  hard  on  his  fellow- 
Reprobates.  I  thought  the  Colonel  rather  handsome, 
and  I  had  seen  him  studying  his  guide-book  more 
than  once.  As  for  the  Apostle,  I  said  that  I  never 
really  felt  that  he  was  about  to  blow  up ;  that  appear- 
ances were  often  deceitful  and  very  likely  there  was 
no  immediate  danger. 

They  were  not  inclined  to  be  sociable — the  Colonel 
and  the  Apostle.  They  merely  intimated  that  we 
might  go  away,  preferably  to  a  place  not  down  on  the 
ship's  itinerary,  and  kept  on  with  their  eternal  game. 

It  is  curious,  the  fascination  of  that  game,  piquet — 
still  more  curious  how  anybody  can  ever  learn  to 
play  it.  In  fact  nobody  ever  does  learn  it.  There 
are  no  rules  —  no  discoverable  rules.  It  is  purely 
an  inspirational  game,  if  one  may  judge  from  this  ex- 
hibition of  it.  After  the  cards  are  dealt  out,  the 
Colonel  picks  up  his  hand,  jerks  his  hat  a  little  lower 
over  his  eyes,  skins  through  his  assortment,  and  says 
"Huh!"  At  the  same  time  the  Apostle  puts  on 
his  holiest  look  —  chin  up,  eye  drooped,  bland  and 
childlike — examines  his  collection,  and  says,  *'God- 
dlemighty!" 

59 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Then  they  play — that  is,  they  go  through  the 
motions.  The  Colonel  puts  down  a  handful  of  cards 
and  says  "Eight."  The  Apostle  never  looks  at  them, 
but  puts  down  a  bigger  handful  of  his  own  and  says 
''Eleven."  Then  the  Colonel  puts  down  another  lot 
and  says  "Fourteen."  Then  the  Apostle  lays  down 
the  balance  of  his  stock  and  the  Colonel  says,  "Hell, 
Joe,"  and  they  set  down  some  figures.  When  they 
are  through,  the  Colonel  owes  the  Apostle  seven 
dollars. 

Yes,  it  is  a  curious  game,  and  would  make  the 
Colonel  a  pauper  in  time,  if  nature  did  not  provide 
other  means  of  adjustment.  After  the  Apostle  has 
his  winnings  comfortably  put  away  and  settled  into 
place,  the  Colonel  takes  out  a  new  five-dollar  gold 
piece,  regards  it  thoughtfully,  turns  it  over,  reads  the 
date,  and  comments  on  its  beauty.  Then  suddenly 
he  slaps  it  down  on  the  table  under  his  hand. 

"Match  you,  Joe,"  he  says,  "match  you  for  five!" 

But  the  Apostle  is  wary.  He  smiles  benignly  while 
he  turns  his  face  from  temptation. 

"No  you  don't,"  he  says,  "never  again." 

The  Colonel  slaps  the  coin  down  again,  quite 
smartly. 

"Just  once,  Joe,"  he  wheedles;  "just  once,  for 
luck!" 

The  Apostle  strokes  his  chubby,  child-like  counte- 
nance with  the  tips  of  his  fingers,  still  looking  away — 
his  eyes  turned  heavenward. 

"I  won't  do  it,  I  tell  you.  No,  now  go  on  away.  I 
told  you  yesterday  I  wouldn't  match  you  again — 
ever." 

60 


Early  Mediterranean   Experiences 

**Just  once,  Joe — just  this  one  time." 

''I  won't  do  it." 

The  Apostle's  attitude  is  still  resolute,  but  there  is 
a  note  of  weakening  in  his  voice  and  his  hand  is  work- 
ing almost  imperceptibly  toward  his  pocket. 

**Just  once  more,  Joe,  just  for  five  dollars — one 
turn." 

The  Apostle's  hand  is  in  his  pocket. 

"Now,  I  tell  you,"  he  says,  "I'll  match  you  this 
one  time,  and  never  again." 

"All  right,  Joe,  just  this  one  time,  for  luck;  come 
on,  now." 

The  coins  go  down  together,  and  when  they  are 
uncovered  the  Colonel  takes  both,  always.  Then  the 
Apostle  jerks  up  his  cap,  jams  it  on,  and  starts  for  the 
deck. 

"Hold  on,  Joe;  just  once  more — ^just  for  luck." 

"You  go  to  hell,  will  you  ?" 

This  is  the  programme  daily  with  but  slight  varia- 
tion. Sometimes  the  Apostle  wins  less  than  seven 
dollars — sometimes  he  loses  more  than  five;  but  he 
always  does  win  at  piquet  and  he  always  does  lose  at 
matching.  Thus  do  the  unseen  forces  preserve  the 
balance  of  exchange. 

We  crossed  over  and  came  in  sight  of  the  mountains 
of  Algeria  during  the  afternoon,  and  all  the  rest  of 
this  halcyon  day  we  skirted  the  African  shore,  while 
Laura  and  I  and  two  other  juveniles  kept  a  game 
of  shufifieboard  going  on  the  after  deck.  To-night 
there  is  to  be  another  grand  dinner  and  dance,  in 
honor  of  Washington's  Birthday.  We  shall  awake 
to-morrow  in  the  harbor  of  Algiers. 
5  6i 


X 

THE    DIVERTING    STORY    OF    ALGIERS 

THIS  is  a  voyage  of  happy  mornings.  It  was 
morning — just  sunrise — when  we  met  the  Ameri- 
can fleet  homeward  bound;  it  was  morning  when  we 
caught  the  first  ghmpse  of  Madeira  and  steamed  into 
the  harbor  of  Funchal;  the  shores  of  Morocco — our 
first  ghmpse  of  the  Orient — came  out  of  the  sunrise, 
and  it  was  just  sunrise  this  morning  when  I  looked 
out  of  my  port-hole  on  the  blue  harbor  and  terraced 
architecture  of  Algiers.  And  the  harbor  of  Algiers  is 
blue,  and  the  terraced  architecture  is  white,  or  creamy, 
and  behind  it  are  the  hills  of  vivid  green.  And  there 
are  palms  and  cypress-trees,  and  bougainvillea  and 
other  climbing  vines.  Viewed  from  the  ship  it  is  a 
picture  city,  and  framed  in  the  port -hole  it  became  a 
landscape  miniature  of  wondrous  radiance  and  vivid 
hues. 

One  of  our  passengers,  a  happy-hearted,  elderly 
Hebrew  soul,  came  along  the  promenade  just  outside 
my  state-room  and  surveyed  the  vision  through  his 
glass.  Presently  he  was  joined  by  his  comfortable, 
good-natured  wife. 

**Vat  you  get  me  up  so  early  for,  Sol?"  she  said. 

He  handed  her  his  glass,  his  whole  face  alive  with 
joy  of  the  moment — fairly  radiant  it  was. 

*  *  I  yust  couldn't  help  it ! "  he  said.     ' '  Dot  sunrising 

62 


The  Diverting  Story  of  Algiers 

and  dot  harbor  and  dot  city  all  make  such  a  beautiful 
sight." 

A  beautiful  sight  it  was,  and  it  had  the  added  charm 
of  being  our  first  near  approach  to  the  Orient.  For 
Algiers  is  still  the  Orient,  though  it  has  been  a  French 
colony  for  nearly  a  hundred  years.  The  Orient  and 
the  Occident  have  met  here,  and  the  Occident  has 
conquered,  but  the  Orient  is  the  Orient  still,  and  will 
be  so  long  as  a  vestige  of  it  remains. 

The  story  of  Algiers,  like  that  of  every  Mediterra- 
nean country,  has  been  a  motley  one,  and  bloody 
enough,  of  course.  The  Romans  held  it  for  nearly 
five  hundred  years;  the  Vandals  followed  them,  and 
these  in  turn  were  ousted  by  the  Arabs,  about  the 
year  700  a.d.  Blood  flowed  during  each  of  these 
changes,  and  betweentimes.  There  was  always  blood 
— rivers  of  it — lakes  of  it — this  harbor  has  been  red 
with  it  time  and  again. 

It  did  not  stop  flowing  with  the  Arabian  conquest — 
not  by  any  means.  Those  Arabs  were  barbarians 
and  robbers — Bedouins  on  land  and  pirates  on  the 
sea.  They  were  the  friends  of  no  nation  or  people, 
and  when  business  was  dull  outside,  they  would 
break  out  among  themselves  and  indulge  in  pillage 
and  slaughter  at  home  for  mere  pastime.  About  the 
time  Columbus  was  discovering  America  they  were 
joined  by  the  Moors  and  Jews  who  were  being  driven 
out  of  Spain  and  who  decided  to  take  up  piracy  as 
a  regular  business. 

Piratic  industry,  combined  with  slavery,  flourished 
for  a  matter  of  four  centuries  after  that ;  then  Com- 
modore Decatur  with  a  handful  of  little  vessels  met 

63 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


the  Algerian  fleet  off  Carthagena  on  the  20th  of 
June,  181 5.  Decatur  was  a  good  hand  with  pirates. 
He  went  to  work  on  that  fleet  and  when  he  got  through 
there  wasn't  enough  of  it  left  to  capture  a  banana- 
boat.  Then  he  appeared  before  Algiers  and  sent  a 
note  to  the  Dey  demanding  the  immediate  release 
of  all  Americans  in  slavery.  The  Dey  replied  that 
as  a  mere  matter  of  form  he  hoped  the  American  com- 
mander would  agree  to  sending  a  small  annual  tribute 
of  powder. 

"If  you  take  the  powder  you  must  take  the  balls 
with  it,"  was  Decatur's  reply,  and  thus  the  young 
American  republic,  then  only  about  thirty  years  old, 
was  first  to  break  down  the  monstrous  institutions 
of  piracy  and  enslavement  which  for  more  than  a 
thousand  years  had  furnished  Algerian  revenues. 

One  Hussein  (history  does  not  mention  his  other 
name,  but  it  was  probably  Ali  Ben)  was  the  last  Dey 
of  Algiers,  and  his  memory  is  not  a  credit  to  his 
country's  story.  He  was  cruel  and  insolent;  also, 
careless  in  his  statements. 

Piracy  under  A.  B.  Hussein  flourished  with  a  good 
deal  of  its  old  vigor,  though  I  believe  he  was  rather 
careful  about  plundering  American  vessels.  Hussein 
was  also  a  usurer  and  the  principal  creditor  of  some 
Jewish  merchants  who  had  a  claim  against  France. 
The  claim  was  in  litigation,  and  Hussein,  becoming 
impatient,  demanded  payment  from  the  French  king. 
As  France  had  been  the  principal  sufferer  from  Hus- 
sein's pirates,  it  was  not  likely  that  the  king  would 
notice  this  demand.  Soon  after,  in  the  Dey's  palace, 
the  Kasba,   at  a  court   function  the   Dey  asked  of 

64 


The  Diverting  Story  of  Algiers 

the  French  consul  why  his  master  had  remained 
silent. 

' '  The  King  of  France  does  not  correspond  with  the 
Dey  of  Algiers,"  was  the  haughty  reply,  whereupon 
Hussein  struck  the  consul  on  the  cheek  with  his  fan, 
and  said  a  lot  of  unpleasant  things  of  both  king  and 
consul. 

That  was  the  downfall  of  Algiers.  A  blockade 
was  established  by  the  French,  and  three  years  later 
the  French  army  of  invasion  marched  in.  Fifteen 
hundred  guns,  seventeen  ships  of  war,  and  fifty  million 
francs  fell  into  the  hands  of  France,  as  spoil  of  war. 
Algiers  was  no  longer  the  terror  of  the  seas.  Over 
six  hundred  thousand  Christian  people  had  suffered 
the  horrors  of  Algerian  bondage,  but  with  that  July 
day,  1830,  came  the  end  of  this  barbarism,  since 
which  time  Algiers  has  acquired  a  new  habit — the 
habit  of  jumping  at  the  crack  of  the  French  whip. 

I  may  say  here  in  passing  that  we  were  to  hear  a 
good  deal  of  that  incident  of  the  Dey,  the  French 
consul,  and  the  fan.  It  was  in  the  guide-books  in 
various  forms,  and  as  soon  as  I  got  dressed  and  on 
deck  one  of  our  conductors — himself  a  former  resi- 
dent of  Algiers — approached  me  with: 

"Do  you  see  that  tower  up  there  on  the  hill- top? 
That  is  the  Kasba.  It  was  in  that  tower  that  Hussein, 
the  last  Dey  of  Algiers,  struck  the  French  consul 
three  times  on  the  cheek  with  his  fan — an  act  which 
led  to  the  conquest  of  Algiers  by  France." 

I  looked  at  the  tower  with  greatly  renewed  interest, 
and  brought  it  up  close  to  me  with  my  glass.  Then 
he  pointed  out  other  features  of  the  city,  fair  and 

65 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


rttVyMAri  ■^l^.V*"^ 


THAT    IS    THE    KASBA 


beautiful  in  the  light  of  morning:  the  mosque;  the 
governor's  palace;  the  Arab  quarter;  the  villas  of 
wealthy  Algerines.  He  drifted  away,  then,  and  the 
Diplomat  approached.  He  also  had  been  in  Algiers 
once  before.     He  said: 

''Do  you  see  that  tower  there  on  the   hill -top? 

66 


The  Diverting  Story   of  Algiers 

That  is  the  Kasba.  It  was  in  that  tower  that  Hussein, 
the  last  Dey  of  Algiers,  struck  the  French  consul 
three  times  on  the  cheek  with  his  fan — an  act  which 
led  to  the  conquest  of  Algiers  by  France." 

He  went  away,  and  I  looked  over  the  ship's  side 
at  the  piratical-looking  boatmen  who  were  gathering 
to  the  attack.  They  were  a  picturesque  lot — ^their 
costumes  purely  Oriental — their  bare  feet  encased  in 
shoes  right  out  of  the  Arabian  Nights  pictures.  I  was 
just  turning  to  remark  these  things  to  one  of  the 
Reprobates,  the  Colonel,  when  he  said: 

* '  Do  you  see  that  tower  up  there  on  the  hill-top  ? ' ' 

** Colonel,"  I  said,  "you've  been  reading  your  guide- 
book, and  I  saw  you  the  other  day  with  a  book 
called  Innocents  Abroad.'' 

He  looked  a  little  dazed. 

"Well,"  he  said,  "what  of  it?" 

"Nothing;  only  that  tower  seems  to  be  another 
*  Queen's  Chair.*  I've  been  to  it  several  times  in  the 
guide-book  myself,  and  I've  already  had  it  twice 
served  up  by  hand.  Let's  don't  talk  about  it  any 
more,  until  we've  been  ashore  and  had  a  look  at  it." 


ONE    DOES    NOT    HURRY    THE    ORIENT ONE    WAITS    ON    IT 


XI 


WE    ENTER   THE    ORIENT 


WE  went  ashore,  in  boats  to  the  dock,  then  we 
stepped  over  some  things,  and  under  some 
things  and  walked  through  the  custom-house  (they 
don't  seem  to  bother  us  at  these  places)  and  there 
were  our  carriages  (very  grand  carriages — quite 
different  from  the  little  cramped  jiggle-wagons  of  Gib- 
raltar) all  drawn  up  and  waiting.  And  forthwith  we 
found  ourselves  in  the  midst  of  the  Orient  and  the 
Occident — a  busy,  multitudinous  life,  pressing  about 
us,  crowding  up  to  our  carriages  to  sell  us  postal  cards 
and  gaudy  trinkets,  babbling  away  in  mongrel  French 
and  other  motley  and  confused  tongues. 

What  a  grand  exhibition  it  was  to  us  who  had  come 
up  out  of  the  Western  Ocean,  only  half  believing  that 

68 


We  Enter  the   Orient 


such  scenes  as  this — ^throngs  of  sun-baked  people  in 
fantastic  dress — could  still  exist  anywhere  in  the 
world !  We  were  willing  to  sit  there  and  look  at  them, 
and  I  kept  my  camera  going  feverishly,  being  filled 
with  a  sort  of  fear,  I  suppose,  that  there  were  no 
other  such  pictures  on  earth  and  I  must  catch  them 
now  or  never. 

We  were  willing  to  linger,  but  not  too  long.  We 
got  our  first  lesson  in  Oriental  deliberation  right  there. 
Guides  had  been  arranged  for  and  we  must  wait  for 
them  before  we  could  start  the  procession.  They  did 
not  come  promptly.  Nothing  comes  promptly  in  the 
Orient.  One  does  not  hurry  the  Orient — one  waits  on 
it.  That  is  a  maxim  I  struck  out  on  the  anvil,  white- 
hot,  that  first  hour  in  Algiers,  and  I  am  satisfied  it  is  not 
subject  to  change.  The  sun  poured  down  on  us ;  the 
turbaned,  burnoused,  barefooted  selling-men  rallied 
more  vociferously;  the  Reprobates  invented  new 
forms  of  profanity  to  fit  Eastern  conditions,  and  still 
the  guides  did  not  come. 

We  watched  some  workmen  storing  grain  in  ware- 
houses built  under  the  fine  esplanade  that  flanks  the 
water-front,  and  the  picture  they  made  consoled  us 
for  a  time.  They  were  Arabs  of  one  tribe  or  another 
and  they  wore  a  motley  dress.  All  had  some  kind  of 
what  seemed  cumbersome  head-gear — a  turban  or  a 
folded  shawl,  or  perhaps  an  old  gunny- sack  made  into 
a  sort  of  hood  with  a  long  cape  that  draped  down 
behind.  A  few  of  them  had  on  thick  European  coats 
over  their  other  paraphernalia. 

We  wondered  why  they  should  dress  in  this  volu- 
minous fashion  in  such  a  climate,  and  then  we  decided 

69 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


that  the  wisdom  of  the  East  had  prompted  the  pro- 
tection of  that  head-gear  and  general  assortment  of 
wardrobe  against  the  blazing  sun.  Our  guides  came 
drifting  in  by  and  by,  wholly  unexcited  and  only 
dreamily  interested  in  our  presence,  and  the  pro- 
cession moved.  Then  we  ascended  to  the  streets 
above — beautiful  streets,  and  if  it  were  not  for  the 
Oriental  costumes  and  faces  everywhere  we  might 
have  been  in  France. 

French  soldiers  were  discoverable  all  about ;  French 
groups  were  chatting  and  drinking  coffee  and  other 
beverages  at  open-air  cafes;  fine  French  equipages 
rolled  by  with  ladies  and  gentlemen  in  fashionable 
French  dress.  Being  carnival-time,  the  streets  were 
decorated  with  banners  and  festoons  in  the  French 
colors.  But  for  the  intermixture  of  fezzes  and  turbans 
and  the  long-flowing  garments  of  the  East  we  would 
have  said,  *' After  all,  this  is  not  the  Orient,  it  is 
France." 

But  French  Algiers,  ''gay,  beautiful,  and  modern 
as  Paris  itself"  (the  guide-book  expression),  is,  after 
all,  only  the  outer  bulwark,  or  rather  the  ornate  frame 
of  the  picture  it  encloses.  That  picture  when  you  are 
fairly  in  the  heart  of  it  is  as  purely  Oriental  I  believe 
as  anything  in  the  world  to-day,  and  cannot  have 
changed  much  since  Mohammedanism  came  into 
power  there  a  thousand  years  ago.  But  I  am  getting 
ahead  too  fast.  We  did  not  penetrate  the  heart  of 
Algiers  at  once — only  the  outer  edges. 

We  drove  to  our  first  mosque — a  typical  white- 
domed  affair,  plastered  on  the  outside,  and  we  fought 
our  way  through  the  beggars  who  got  in  front  of  us 

70 


We  Enter  the   Orient 


and  behind  us  and  about  us,  demanding  ''sou-penny,'' 
at  least  it  sounded  like  that — a  sort  of  French-English 
combination,  I  suppose,  which  probably  has  been 
found  to  work  well  enough  to  warrant  its  general 
adoption. 

We  thought  we  had  seen  beggars  at  Madeira,  and 
had  become  hardened  to  them.  We  had  become 
hardened  toward  the  beggars,  but  not  to  our  own 
sufferings.  One  can  only  stand  about  so  much 
punishment — then  he  surrenders.  It  is  easier  and 
quicker  to  give  a  sou-penny,  or  a  dozen  of  them,  than 
it  is  to  be  bedevilled  and  besmirched  and  bewildered 
by  these  tatterdemalion  Arabs  who  grab  and  cling 
and  obstruct  until  one  doesn't  know  whether  he  is 
in  Algiers  or  Altoona,  and  wishes  only  to  find  relief 
and  sanctuary.  Evidently  sight-seeing  in  the  East 
has  not  become  less  strenuous  since  the  days  when  the 
"Innocents"  made  their  pilgrimage  in  these  waters. 

We  found  temporary  sanctuary  in  the  mosque, 
but  it  was  not  such  as  one  would  wish  to  adopt 
permanently.  It  was  a  bare,  unkempt  place,  and 
they  made  us  put  on  very  objectionable  slippers 
before  we  could  step  on  their  sacred  carpets.  This 
is  the  first  mosque  we  have  seen,  so  of  course  I  am 
not  a  purist  in  the  matter  of  mosques  yet,  but  I  am 
wondering  if  it  takes  dirt  and  tatters  to  make  a  rug 
sacred,  and  if  half  a  dozen  mangy,  hungry-looking 
Arab  priests  inspire  the  regular  attendants  in  a  place 
like  that  with  religious  fervor. 

They  inspired  me  only  with  a  desire  to  get  back 
to  the  beggars,  where  I  could  pay  sou-pennies  for 
the  privilege  of  looking  at  the  variegated  humanity 

71 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


and  of  breathing  the  open  air.  The  guide-book  says 
this  is  a  poor  mosque,  but  that  is  gratuitous  infor- 
mation; I  could  have  told  that  myself  as  soon  as 
I  looked  at  it.     Anybody  could. 

We  went  through  some  markets  after  that,  and 
saw  some  new  kinds  of  flowers  and  fruit  and  fish, 
but  they  did  not  matter.  I  knew  there  were  better 
things  than  these  in  Algiers,  and  I  was  impatient  to 
get  to  them.  I  begrudged  the  time,  too,  that  we 
put  in  on  some  public  buildings,  though  a  down-town 
palace  of  AH  Ben  Hussein,  the  final  Dey  of  Algiers 
— a  gaudy  wedding-cake  affair,  all  fluting  and  frost- 


MARVELLOUS  BASKETS  AND 
THINGS 


ing — was  not  without  interest,  especially  when  we 
found  that  the  late  Hussein  had  kept  his  seven  wives 
there.     It  was  a  comparatively  old  building,  built  in 

72 


We  Enter  the   Orient 


Barbarossa  times,  the  guide  said,  and  now  used  only 
on  certain  official  occasions.  It  is  not  in  good  taste, 
I  imagine,  even  from  the  Oriental  standpoint. 

But  what  we  wanted,  some  of  us  at  least,  was  to 
get  out  of  these  show-places  and  into  the  shops — the 
native  shops  that  we  could  see  stretching  down  the 
little  side-streets.  We  could  discover  perfectly  marvel- 
lous baskets  and  jugs  and  queer  things  of  every  sort 
fairly  stuffing  these  little  native  selling- places,  and 
there  were  always  fascinating  groups  in  those  side- 
streets,  besides  men  with  big  copper  water-jars  on 
their  shoulders  that  looked  a  thousand  years  old — 
the  jars,  I  mean — all  battered  and  dented  and  polished 
by  the  mutations  of  the  passing  years. 

I  wanted  one  of  those  jars.  I  would  have  given 
more  for  one  of  those  jars  than  for  the  mosque,  in- 
cluding all  the  sacred  rugs  and  the  holy  men,  or  for 
the  palace  of  A.  B.  Hussein,  and  Hussein  himself, 
with  his  seven  wives  thrown  in  for  good  measure. 
No,  I  withdraw  that  last  item.  I  would  not  make  a 
quick  decision  like  that  in  the  matter  of  the  wives. 
I  would  like  to  look  them  over  first.  But,  dear  me,  I 
forgot — they  have  been  dead  a  long,  long  time,  so 
let  the  offer  stand.  That  is  to  say,  I  did  want  the 
jar  and  I  was  willing  to  do  without  the  other  things. 
There  was  no  good  opportunity  for  investment  just 
then,  and  when  I  discussed  the  situation  with  Laura, 
who  was  in  the  carriage  with  me,  she  did  not  encourage 
any  side-adventures.  She  was  right,  I  suppose,  for  we 
were  mostly  on  the  move.  We  went  clattering  away 
through  some  pleasing  parks,  presently,  and  our  drivers, 
who  were  French,  cracked  their  whips  at  the  Algerine 

73 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


rabble  and  would  have  run  them  down,  I  believe, 
with  great  willingness,  and  could  have  done  so, 
perhaps,  without  fear  of  penalty.  Certainly  French 
soldiers  are  immune  to  retribution  in  Algiers.  We  saw 
evidence  of  that,  and  I  would  have  resented  their 
conduct  more,  if  I  had  not  remembered  those  days 
not  so  long  ago  of  piracy  and  bondage,  and  realized 


WE    DID    NOT    CARE    MUCH    FOR    PARKS 


that  these  same  people  might  be  murdering  and  en- 
slaving yet  but  for  the  ever-ready  whip  of  France. 

From  one  of  the  parks  we  saw  above  us  an  old, 
ruined,  vine-covered  citadel.  Could  we  go  up  there? 
we  asked ;  we  did  not  care  much  for  parks.  Yes,  we 
could  go  up  there — all  in  good  time.     One  does  not 

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hurry  the  Orient — one  waits  on  it.  We  did  go  up 
there,  all  in  good  time,  and  then  we  found  it  was  the 
Kasba,  the  same  where  had  occurred  the  incident 
which  had  brought  about  the  fall  of  Algiers. 

They  did  not  show  us  the  room  where  that  historic 
spark  had  been  kindled,  but  they  did  tell  us  the  story 
again,  and  they  showed  us  a  view  of  the  city  and  the 
harbor  and  the  Atlas  Mountains  with  snow  on  them, 
and  one  of  our  party  asked  if  those  mountains  were 
in  Spain.  I  would  have  been  willing  to  watch  that 
view  for  the  rest  of  the  day  had  we  had  time.  We  did 
not  have  time.  We  were  to  lunch  somewhere  by 
and  by,  and  meantime  we  were  to  go  through  the 
very  heart,  the  very  heart  of  hearts,  of  Algiers. 

That  is  to  say,  the  Arab  quarter — the  inner  circle  of 
circles  where,  so  far  as  discoverable,  French  domination 
has  not  yet  laid  its  hand.  We  left  the  carriages  at  a 
point  somewhere  below  the  Kasba,  passed  through  an 
arch  in  a  dead  wall — an  opening  so  low  that  the 
tallest  of  us  had  to  stoop  (it  was  a  "needle's  eye," 
no  doubt) — and  there  we  were.  At  one  step  we  had 
come  from  a  mingling  of  East  and  West  to  that  which 
was  eternally  East  with  no  hint  or  suggestion  of 
contact  with  any  outside  world. 

I  should  say  the  streets  would  average  six  to  eight 
feet  wide,  all  leading  down  hill.  They  were  winding 
streets,  some  of  them  dim,  and  each  a  succession  of 
stone  steps  and  grades  that  meander  down  and  down 
into  a  stranger  labyrinth  of  life  than  I  had  ever 
dreamed  of. 

How  weak  any  attempt  to  tell  of  that  life  seems! 
The  plastered,  blind-eyed  houses  with  their  mysterious 

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The  Ship -Jewellers 


entrances   and   narrow  dusky 
stairways  leading  to  what  dark 
and   sinister   occupancy;    the 
narrow  streets  bending  off  here 
and  there  that  one  might  fol- 
low, who  could  say  whither; 
the  silent,  drowsing,  strangely 
garbed  humanity  that  regard- 
ed us  only  with  a  vague  scorn- 
ful interest  and  did  not  even 
offer    to    beg ;    the    low    dim 
coffee-houses  before 
which  men  sat  drink- 
ing and  contemplat- 
ing— so  inattentive  to 
the  moment's   event 
that  one   might   be- 
lieve   they    had    sat 
always  thus,  sipping 
and  contemplating, 
and    would    so    sit 
through   time  —  how 
can  I  convey  to  the 
reader  even   a   faint 
reflection  of  that  un- 
^^  real,  half -awake  world 
or  conjure  again  the 
spell  which,  beholding 
it  for  the  first  time, 
one  is  bound  to  feel? 
Everywhere  was    humanity  which   belonged  only 
to  the  East — had  always   belonged  there — had  re- 

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ThoMAi  Fot>s^»ir 


ETERNALLY    EAST    WITH    NO    HINT    OF 
THE    OUTSIDE    WORLD 


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mained  unchanged  in  feature  and  dress  and  mode  of 
life  since  the  beginning.  The  prophets  looked  and 
dressed  just  as  these  people  look  and  dress,  and  their 
cities  were  as  this  city,  built  into  steep  hillsides,  with 
streets  a  few  feet  wide,  shops  six  feet  square  or  less, 
the  dreaming  shopkeeper  in  easy  reach  of  every 
article  of  his  paltry  trade. 

I  do  not  think  it  is  a  very  clean  place.  Of  course 
the  matter  of  being  clean  is  more  or  less  a  comparative 
condition,  and  what  one  nation  or  one  family  con- 
siders clean  another  nation  or  family  might  not  be 
satisfied  with  at  all.  But  judged  by  any  standards 
I  have  happened  to  meet  heretofore  I  should  say  the 
Arab  quarter  of  Algiers  was  not  overclean. 

But  it  was  picturesque.  In  whatever  direction  you 
looked  was  a  picture.  It  was  like  nature  untouched 
by  civilization — it  could  not  be  unpicturesque  if  it 
tried.  It  was,  in  fact,  just  that — nature  unspoiled 
by  what  we  choose  to  call  civilization  because  it 
means  bustle,  responsibility,  office  hours,  and,  now 
and  then,  clean  clothes.  And  being  nature,  even  the 
dirt  was  not  unbeautiful. 

Somebody  has  defined  dirt  as  matter  out  of  place. 
It  was  not  out  of  place  here.  Nor  rags.  Some  of 
these  creatures  were  literally  a  mass  of  rags — rag  upon 
rag — sewed  on,  tacked  on,  tied  on,  hung  on — but 
they  were  fascinating.  What  is  the  use  trying  to  con- 
vey all  the  marvel  of  it  in  words  ?  One  must  see  for 
himself  to  realize,  and  even  then  he  will  believe  he 
has  been  dreaming  as  soon  as  he  turns  away. 

In  a  little  recess,  about  half-way  down  the  hill, 
heeding  nothing — ^wholly  lost  in  reverie  it  would  seem 
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The  Ship -Dwellers 


— sat  two  venerable,  turbaned  men.  They  had  long 
beards  and  their  faces  were  fine  and  dignified.  These 
were  holy  men,  the  guides  told  us,  and  very  sacred. 
I  did  not  understand  just  why  they  were  holy — a 
mere  trip  to^  Mecca  would  hardly  have  made  them  as 
holy  as  that,  I  should  think — and  nobody  seemed  to 
know  the  answer  when  I  asked  about  it.  Then  I  asked 
if  I  might  photograph  them,  but  I  could  see  by  the 
way  our  guide  grabbed  at  something  firm  to  sustain 
himself  that  it  would  be  just  as  well  not  to  press  the 
suggestion. 

I  was  not  entirely  subdued,  however,  and  pretty 
soon  hunted  up  further  trouble.  A  boy  came  along 
with  one  of  the  copper  water-jars — a  small  one — 
probably  children's  size.  I  made  a  dive  for  him  and 
proposed  buying  it;  that  is,  I  held  out  money  and 
reached  for  the  jar.  He  probably  thought  I  wanted 
a  drink,  and  handed  it  to  me,  little  suspecting  my 
base  design.  But  when  he  saw  me  admiring  the  jar 
itself  and  discussing  it  with  Laura,  who  was  waiting 
rather  impatiently  while  our  party  was  drifting  away, 
he  reached  for  it  himself,  and  my  money  did  not  seem 
to  impress  him. 

Now  I  suspect  that  those  jars  are  not  for  sale. 
This  one  had  a  sort  of  brass  seal  with  a  number  and 
certain  cryptic  words  on  it  which  would  suggest  some 
kind  of  record.  As  likely  as  not  those  jars  are  all 
licensed,  and  for  that  boy  to  have  parted  with  his 
would  have  landed  us  both  in  a  donjon  keep.  I  don't 
know  in  the  least  what  a  donjon  keep  is,  but  it  sounds 
like  a  place  to  put  people  for  a  good  while,  and  I 
had  no  time  then  for  experimental  knowledge.     Our 

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friends  had  already  turned  a  corner  when  we  started 
on  and  we  hurried  to  catch  up,  not  knowing  whether 
or  not  we  should  ever  find  them  again. 

We  came  upon  them  at  last  peering  into  an  Arab 
school.  The  teacher,  who  wore  a  turban,  sat  cross- 
legged  on  a  raised  dais,  and  the  boys,  who  wore  fezzes 
— ^there  were  no  girls — ^were  grouped  on  either  side — 
on  a  rug  —  their  pointed  shoes  standing  in  a  row 
along  the  floor.  They  were  reciting  in  a  chorus  from 
some  large  cards — ^the  Koran,  according  to  the  guide 
— and  it  made  a  queer  clatter. 

It  must  have  struck  their  dinner-hour,  just  then, 
for  suddenly  they  all  rose,  and  each  in  turn  made  an 
obeisance  to  the  teacher,  kissed  his  hand,  slipped  on  a 
pair  of  little  pointed  shoes  and  swarmed  out  just  as 
any  school-boy  in  any  land  might  do.  Only  they 
were  not  so  noisy  or  impudent.  They  were  rather 
grave,  and  their  curiosity  concerning  us  was  not  of  a 
frantic  kind.  They  were  training  for  the  life  of  con- 
templation, no  doubt;  perhaps  even  to  be  holy  men. 

We  passed  little  recesses  where  artizans  of  all  kinds 
were  at  work  with  crude  implements  on  what  seemed 
unimportant  things.  We  passed  a  cubby-hole  where 
a  man  was  writing  letters  in  the  curious  Arabic 
characters  for  men  who  squatted  about  and  waited 
their  turn.  We  saw  the  pettiest  merchants  in  the 
world — men  with  half  a  dozen  little  heaps  of  fruit  and 
vegetables  on  the  ground,  not  more  than  three  or  four 
poor- looking  items  in  each  heap.  In  a  land  where 
fruit  and  vegetables  are  the  most  plentiful  of  all 
products,  a  whole  stock  in  trade  like  that  could  not 
be  worth  above  three  or  four  cents.     I  wonder  what 

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The  Ship -Jewellers 


sort  of  a  change  they  make  when  they  sell  only  a  part 
of  one  of  those  pitiful  heaps. 

We  were  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  and  out  of  that 
delightful  Arab  quarter  all  too  soon.  But  we  could 
not  stay.  Our  carriages  were  waiting  there,  and  we 
were  in  and  off  and  going  gaily  through  very  beautiful 
streets  to  reach  the  hotel  where  we  were  to  lunch. 

Neither  shall  I  dwell  on  the  governor's  palace  which 
we  visited,  though  it  is  set  in  a  fair  garden;  nor  on 
the  museum,  with  the  exception  of  just  one  thing. 
That  one  item  is,  I  believe,  unique  in  the  world's  list 
of  curiosities.  It  is  a  plaster  cast  of  the  martyr 
Geronimo  in  the  agony  of  death.  The  Algerines  put 
Geronimo  alive  into  a  soft  mass  of  concrete  which 
presently  hardened  into  a  block,  and  was  built  into 
a  fort.  This  was  in  1569,  and  about  forty  years  later 
a  Spanish  writer  described  the  event  and  told  exactly 
how  that  particular  block  could  be  located. 

The  fort  stood  for  nearly  three  hundred  years. 
Then  in  1853  it  was  torn  down,  the  block  was  identified 
and  broken  open,  and  an  almost  perfect  mould  of  the 
dead  martyr  was  found  within.  They  filled  the  mould 
with  plaster,  and  the  result — a  wonderful  cast — lies 
there  in  the  museum  to-day,  his  face  down  as  he  died, 
hands  and  feet  bound  and  straining,  head  twisted  to 
one  side  in  the  supreme  torture  of  that  terrible  mar- 
tyrdom. It  is  a  gruesome,  fascinating  thing,  and  you 
go  back  to  look  at  it  more  than  once,  and  you  slip 
out  betweentimes  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 

Remembering  the  story  and  looking  at  that  strain- 
ing figure,  you  realize  a  little  of  the  need  he  must 
have  known,  and  your  lungs  contract  and  you  smother 

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and  hurry  out  to  the  sky  and  sun  and  God-given 
oxygen  of  hfe.  He  could  not  have  Hved  long,  but 
every  second  of  consciousness  must  have  been  an 
eternity  of  horror,  for  there  is  no  such  thing  as  time 
except  as  to  mode  of  measurement,  and  a  measurement 
such  as  that  would  compass  ages  unthinkable.  If  I 
lived  in  Algiers  and  at  any  time  should  sprout  a  little 
bud  of  discontent  with  the  present  state  of  affairs — a 
little  sympathy  with  the  subjugated  population — I 
would  go  and  take  a  look  at  Geronimo,  and  forthwith 
all  the  discontent  and  the  sympathy  would  pass  away, 
and  I  would  come  out  gloating  in  the  fact  that  France 
can  crack  the  whip  and  that  we  of  the  West  can  ride 
them  down. 

We  drove  through  the  suburbs,  the  most  beautiful 
suburbs  I  have  ever  seen  in  any  country,  and  here  and 
there  beggars  sprang  up  by  the  roadside  and  pursued 
us  up  hill  and  down,  though  we  were  going  helter- 
skelter  with  fine  horses  over  perfect  roads.  How 
these  children  could  keep  up  with  us  I  shall  never 
know,  or  how  a  girl  of  not  more  than  ten  could 
carry  a  big  baby  and  run  full  speed  down  hill,  crying 
out  ''Sou-penny''  at  every  step,  never  stumbling  or 
falling  behind.  Of  course,  nobody  could  stand  that. 
We  flung  her  sou -pennies  and  she  gathered  them  up 
like  lightning  and  was  after  the  rear  carriages,  un- 
satisfied and  unabated  in  speed. 

We  passed  a  little  lake  with  two  frogs  in  it.  They 
called  to  us,  but  they  spoke  only  French  or  Algerian, 
so  we  did  not  catch  the  point  of  their  remarks. 

And  now  we  drove  home — that  is,  back  to  the  fine 
streets  near  the  water-front  where  we  were  to  leave 

8i 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


the  carriages  and  wander  about  for  a  while,  at  will. 
That  was  a  wild,  splendid  drive.  We  were  all  princi- 
pals in  a  gorgeous  procession  that  went  dashing  down 
boulevards  and  through  villages,  our  drivers  cracking 
their  whips  at  the  scattering  people  who  woke  up 
long  enough  to  make  a  fairly  spry  dash  for  safety. 

Oh,  but  it  was  grand!  The  open  barouches,  the 
racing  teams,  the  cracking  whips!  Let  the  Arab 
horde  have  a  care.  They  sank  unoffending  vessels; 
they  reddened  the  sea  with  blood;  they  enslaved 
thousands ;  they  martyred  Geronimo.  Let  the  whips 
crack — drive  us  fast  over  them! 

Still,  I  wasn't  quite  so  savage  as  I  sound.  I  didn't 
really  wish  to  damage  any  of  those  Orientals.  I  only 
wanted  to  feel  that  I  could  do  it  and  not  have  to  pay 
a  fine — not  a  big  fine — and  I  invented  the  idea  of 
taking  a  lot  of  those  cheap  Arabs  to  America  for 
automobilists  to  use  up,  and  save  money. 

When  we  got  back  to  town,  while  the  others  were 
nosing  about  the  shops,  I  slipped  away  and  went  up 
into  the  Arab  quarter  again,  alone.  It  was  toward 
evening  now,  and  it  was  twilight  in  there,  and  there 
was  such  a  lot  of  humanity  among  which  I  could  not 
see  a  single  European  face  or  dress.  I  realized  that 
I  was  absolutely  alone  in  that  weird  place  and  that 
these  people  had  no  love  for  the  ''Christian  Dog." 

I  do  not  think  I  was  afraid,  but  I  thought  of  these 
things,  and  wondered  how  many  years  would  be  likely 
to  pass  before  anybody  would  get  a  trace  of  what 
had  become  of  me,  if  anything  did  become  of  me,  and 
what  that  thing  would  be  likely  to  be.  Something 
free  and  handsome,  no  doubt — something  with  hot 

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skewers  and  boiling  oil  in  it,  or  perhaps  soft  con- 
crete. 

Still,  I  couldn't  decide  to  turn  back,  not  yet.  If 
the  place  had  been  interesting  by  daylight,  it  was 
doubly  so,  now,  in  the  dusk,  with  the  noiseless,  hooded 
figures  slipping  by;  the  silent  coffee-drinkers  in  the 
half  gloom — ^leaning  over  now  and  then,  to  whisper 
a  little  gossip,  maybe,  but  usually  abstracted,  in- 
different. What  could  they  ever  have  to  gossip  about 
anyway?  They  had  no  affairs.  Their  affairs  all 
ended  long  ago. 

I  came  to  an  open  place  by  and  by,  a  tiny  square 
which  proved  to  be  a  kind  of  second-hand  market- 
place. I  altered  all  my  standards  of  economy  there 
in  a  few  mmutes.  They  were  selling  things  that  the 
poorest  family  of  the  East  Side  of  New  York  would 
pitch  into  the  garbage- barrel.  Broken  bottles,  tin 
cans,  wretched  bits  of  clothing,  cracked  clay  water- 
jars  that  only  cost  a  few  cents  new.  I  had  bought 
a  new  one  myself  as  I  came  along  for  eight  cents. 
I  began  to  feel  a  deep  regret  that  I  had  not  waited. 

Adjoining  the  market  was  a  gaming- place  and  coffee- 
house combined.  Men  squatting  on  the  ground  in 
the  dusk  played  dominoes  and  chess  wordlessly,  never 
looking  up,  only  sipping  their  coffee  now  and  then, 
wholly  indifferent  to  time  and  change  and  death  and 
the  hereafter.  I  could  have  watched  them  longer, 
but  it  would  really  be  dark  presently,  and  one  must 
reach  the  ship  by  a  certain  hour.  One  could  hardly 
get  lost  in  the  Arab  quarter,  for  any  downhill  stair 
takes  you  toward  the  sea,  but  I  did  not  know  by  which 
I  had  come,  so  I  took  the  first  one  and  started  down. 

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The  Ship-Dwellers 


I  walked  pretty  rapidly,  and  I  looked  over  my 
shoulder  now  and  then,  because — ^well,  never  mind, 
I  looked  over  my  shoulder — and  I  would  have  been 
glad  to  see  anything  that  looked  like  a  Christian. 
Presently  I  felt  that  somebody  was  following  me.  I 
took  a  casual  look  and  made  up  my  mind  that  it  was 
true.  There  were  quantities  of  smoking,  drinking 
people  all  about,  but  I  didn't  feel  any  safer  for  that. 
I  stepped  aside  presently  and  stood  still  to  let  him 
pass.  He  did  pass  —  a  sinister  looking  Arab  —  but 
when  I  started  on  he  stepped  aside  too,  and  got 
behind  me  again. 

So  I  stopped  and  let  him  pass  once  more,  and  then 
it  wasn't  necessary  to  manoeuvre  again,  for  a  few 
yards  ahead  the  narrow  Arab  defile  flowed  into  the 
lighter  French  thoroughfare.  He  was  only  a  pick- 
pocket, perhaps — ^there  are  said  to  be  a  good  many  in 
Algiers — but  he  was  not  a  pleasant-looking  person, 
and  I  did  not  care  to  cultivate  him  at  nightfall  in 
that  dim,  time-forgotten  place. 

I  picked  up  some  friends  in  the  French  quarter, 
and  Laura  and  I  drifted  toward  the  ship,  pressed  by 
a  gay  crowd  of  merry-makers.  It  was  carnival- time, 
as  before  mentioned,  and  the  air  was  full  of  confetti, 
and  the  open-air  cafes  were  crowded  with  persons 
of  both  sexes  and  every  nation,  drinking,  smoking, 
and  chattering,  the  air  reeking  with  tobacco  and  the 
fumes  of  absinthe.  Everywhere  were  the  red  and 
blue  soldiers  of  France — Chasseurs  d'Afrique  and 
Zouaves — everywhere  the  fashionable  French  cos- 
tumes— everywhere  the  French  tongue.  And  amid 
that  fashion  and  gayety  of  the  West  the  fez  and  the 

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turban  and  the  long  flowing  robe  of  the  Orient  mingled 
silently,  while  here  and  there  little  groups  of  elderly, 
dignified  sons  of  the  desert  stood  in  quiet  comers, 
observing  and  thinking  long  thoughts.  And  this  is 
the  Algiers  of  to-day — -the  West  dominant — the  East 
a  memory  and  a  dream. 


XII 

WE   TOUCH   AT   GENOA 

WE  lost  some  of  our  passengers  —  the  wrong 
ones  —  at  Algiers.  They  wanted  to  linger 
awhile  in  that  lovely  place,  and  no  one  could  blame 
them.  Only  I  wish  that  next  time  we  are  to  lose 
passengers  I  might  make  the  selection.  I  would  pick, 
for  instance — ^no,  on  the  whole,  I  am  not  the  one  to 
do  it.  I  am  fond  of  all  of  our  people.  They  are  pecu- 
liar, most  of  them,  as  mentioned  before — all  of  them, 
I  believe,  except  me — but  thinking  it  over  I  cannot 
decide  on  a  single  one  that  I  would  be  willing  to  spare. 
Even  the  Porpoise —  But  we  have  grown  to  love  the 
Porpoise,  and  the  news  that  we  are  to  lose  him  at 
Genoa  saddens  me. 

We  were  pitched  from  Algiers  to  Genoa — not  all  at 
one  pitch,  though  we  should  have  liked  that  better. 
A  gale  came  up  out  of  the  north  and,  great  ship  as  the 
Kurfurst  is,  we  stood  alternately  on  our  hind  feet  and 
our  fore  feet  all  the  way  over — ^two  nights  and  a  day 
— while  the  roar  and  howl  of  the  wind  were  appalling. 
We  changed  our  minds  about  the  placid,  dreamy 
disposition  of  the  Mediterranean;  also,  about  sunny 
Italy. 

When  the  second  morning  came  we  were  still  a 
good  way  outside  the  harbor  of  Genoa,  in  the  grip  of 
such  a  norther  and  blizzard  as  tears  through  the 

86 


We   Touch    at  Genoa 


Texas  Panhandle  and  leaves  dead  cattle  in  its  wake. 
Sunny  Italy  indeed!  The  hills  back  of  Genoa,  when 
we  could  make  them  out  at  last,  were  white  with 
snow.  To  go  out  on  deck  was  to  breast  the  pene- 
trating, stinging  beat  of  the  storm. 

But  I  stood  it  awhile  to  get  an  impression  of  the 
harbor.  It  is  no  harbor  at  all,  but  simply  a  little 
comer  of  open  sea,  partly  enclosed  by  breakwaters 
that  measurably  protect  vessels  from  heavy  seas, 
when  one  can  get  through  the  entrance.  With  our 
mighty  engines  and  powerful  machinery  we  were 
beating  and  wallowing  around  the  entrance  for  as 
much  as  two  hours,  I  should  think,  before  we  could 
get  inside.  You  could  stow  that  harbor  of  Genoa 
anywhere  along  the  New  York  City  water-front, 
shipping  and  all,  and  then  you  would  need  to  employ 
a  tug-boat  captain  to  find  it  for  you.  It  is  hard  to 
understand  how  Genoa  obtained  her  maritime  im- 
portance in  the  old  days. 

(I  have  just  referred  tQ|the  guide-book.  It  says: 
**The  magnificent  harbor  of  Genoa  was  the  cause 
of  the  mediaeval  prosperity  of  the  city,"  and  adds 
that  it  is  about  two  miles  in  diameter.  Very  well; 
I  take  it  all  back.  I  was  merely  judging  from  obser- 
vation.    It  has  led  me  into  trouble  before.) 

We  were  only  to  touch  at  Genoa;  some  more  of 
our  passengers  were  to  leave  us,  and  we  were  to  take 
on  the  European  contingent  there.  It  was  not  ex- 
pected that  there  would  be  much  sight-seeing, 
especially  on  such  a  day,  but  some  of  us  went  ashore 
nevertheless.  Laura,  age  fourteen,  and  I  were  among 
those  who  went.     We  set  out  alone,  were  captured 

87 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


immediately  by  a  guide,  repelled  him,  and  temporarily 
escaped.  It  was  a  mistake,  however;  we  discovered 
soon  that  a  guide  would  have  been  better  on  this 
bitter,  buffeting  day. 

We  had  no  idea  where  to  go,  and  when  we  spoke 
to  people  about  it,  they  replied  in  some  dialect  of 
Mulberry  Street  that  ought  not  to  be  permitted  at 
large.  Laura  tried  her  French  on  them  presently, 
but  with  no  visible  effect,  though  it  had  worked 
pretty  well  in  Algiers.  Then  I  discovered  a  German 
sign,  over  a  restaurant  or  something,  and  I  said  I 
would  get  information  there. 

I  had  faith  in  my  German  since  my  practice  on 
the  stewards,  and  I  went  into  the  place  hopefully. 
What  I  wanted  to  ask  was  ''Where  is  Cook's?"  the 
first  question  that  every  tourist  wants  to  ask  when  he 
finds  himself  lost  and  cold  and  hungry  in  a  strange 
land.  But  being  lost  and  cold  and  hungry  confused 
me,  I  suppose,  and  I  got  mixed  in  my  adverbs,  and 
when  the  sentence  came  out  it  somehow  started  with 
''Warum'^  instead  of  ''Wo,"  so  instead  of  asking 
"Where  is  Cook's?"  I  had  asked  "Why  is  Cook's?" 
a  question  which  I  could  have  answered  myself  if  I 
had  only  known  I  had  asked  it. 

But  I  didn't  realize,  and  kept  on  asking  it,  with  a 
little  more  emphasis  each  time,  while  the  landlord 
and  the  groups  about  the  tables  began  to  edge  away 
and  to  reach  for  something  handy  and  solid  to  use 
on  a  crazy  man.  I  backed  out  then,  and  by  the  time 
I  was  outside  I  realized  my  slight  error  in  the  choice 
of  words.  I  did  not  go  back  to  correct  my  inquiry. 
I  merely  told  Laura  that  those  people  in  there  did 

88 


We   Touch   at  Genoa 


not  3eem  very  intelligent,  and  that  was  true,  or  they 
would  have  known  that  anybody  is  likely  to  say 
"why"  when  he  means  ** where,"  especially  in  Ger- 
man. 

There  are  too  many  languages  in  the  world,  anyway. 
There  is  nothing  so  hopeless  as  to  hunt  for  information 
in  a  place  where  not  a  soul  understands  your  language, 
and  where  you  can't  speak  a  word  of  his.  The  first 
man  at  your  very  side  may  have  all  the  informa- 
tion you  need  right  at  his  tongue's  end,  but  it 
might  as  well  be  buried  in  a  cellar  so  far  as  you  are 
concerned. 

I  am  in  deep  sympathy  with  the  people  who  in- 
vented Volapiik,  and  are  trying  to  invent  Esperanto. 
I  never  thought  much  about  it  before,  but  since  I've 
been  to  Genoa  I  know  I  believe  in  those  things.  Only, 
I  wish  they'd  adopt  English  as  the  universal  speech. 
I  find  it  plenty  good  enough. 

Laura  and  I  made  our  way  uphill  and  climbed  some 
stairways,  met  a  gendarme,  got  what  seemed  to  be 
information,  climbed  down  again,  and  met  a  man  with 
a  fish-net  full  of  bread — caught  in  some  back  alley, 
from  the  looks  of  it.  Then  we  followed  a  car-track 
a  while  along  the  deserted  street,  past  black,  desolate- 
looking  houses,  and  were  cold  and  discouraged  and 
desperate,  when  suddenly,  right  out  of  heaven,  came 
that  guide,  who  had  been  following  us  all  the  time,  of 
course,  and  realized  that  the  psychological  moment 
had  come. 

We  could  have  fallen  on  his  neck  for  pure  joy. 
Everything  became  all  right,  then.  He  could  under- 
stand what  we  said,  and  we  could  understand  what 

89 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


he  said;  we  tried  him  repeatedly  and  he  could  do  it 
every  time.  That  was  joy  and  occupation  enough  at 
first.  Then  we  asked  him  "Where  was  Cook's  ?"  and 
he  knew  that  too.     It  was  wonderful. 

We  grew  to  love  that  guide  like  a  brother.  It's 
marvellous  how  soon  and  fondly  you  can  learn  to 
love  a  rescuer  like  that  when  you  are  a  stranger  in  a 
strange  land  and  have  been  sinking  helplessly  in  a 
sea  of  unknown  words. 

He  was  a  good  soul,  too;  attentive  without  being 
officious,  anxious  to  show  us  as  much  as  possible  in 
the  brief  space  of  our  visit.  He  led  us  through  the 
narrow,  cleft-like  streets  of  the  old  city;  he  pointed 
out  the  birthplace  of  Columbus  and  portions  of  the 
old  city  wall;  he  conducted  us  to  the  Hotel  de  Ville 
(the  old  Fieschi  Palace),  where  we  decided  to  have 
luncheon;  he  led  us  back  to  the  ship  at  last,  and 
trusted  me  while  I  went  aboard  to  get  the  five  lira 
of  his  charge. 

Whatever  the  Genoese  guides  were  in  the  old  days, 
this  one  was  a  jewel.  If  I  had  any  voice  in  the  matter 
Genoa  would  inscribe  a  tablet  to  a  man  like  that  and 
put  his  bones  in  a  silver  box  and  label  them  "St. 
John  the  Baptist"  instead  of  the  set  of  St.  John  bones 
they  now  have  in  the  Cathedral  of  St.  Lorenzo,  which 
he  pointed  out  to  us. 

But  the  Cathedral  itself  was  interesting  enough. 
It  was  built  in  the  ninth  century,  and  is  the  first 
church  we  have  seen  that  has  interested  us.  In  it 
Laura  noticed  again  the  absence  of  seats;  for  they 
kneel,  on  this  side  of  the  water,  and  know  not  the 
comfort  of  pews. 

90 


We   Touch   at  Genoa 


We  passed  palaces  galore  in  Genoa,  but  we  had  only 
time  to  glance  in,  except  at  the  Fieschi,  where  we 
lunched,  and  later  were  shown  the  rooms  where  the 
famous  conspiracy  took  place.  I  don't  know  what  the 
conspiracy  was,  but  the  guide-book  speaks  of  it  as 
*'the  famous  conspiracy,"  so  everybody  but  me  will 
know  just  which  one  is  meant.  It  probably  con- 
cerned the  Ghibellines  and  the  Guelphs,  and  had 
strangling  in  it  and  poison — ^three  kinds,  slow,  me- 
dium, and  swift — ^these  features  being  usually  identi- 
fied with  the  early  Italian  school. 

The  dim,  mysterious  streets  of  Genoa  interested 
us — ^many  of  the  houses  frescoed  outside — and  the 
old  city  gates,  dating  back  to  the  crusade ;  also  some 
English  signs,  one  of  which  said: 

DINNER   3    LIRA,    WINE   ENCLOSED, 

and  another: 

MILK   FOR    SALE,    OR   TO    LET. 

I  am  in  favor  of  these  people  learning  English,  but 
not  too  well.  The  picturesque  standard  of  those 
signs  is  about  right. 

Our  new  passengers  were  crowding  aboard  the  ship 
when  we  returned.  They  were  a  polyglot  assort- 
ment, English,  German,  French,  Hungarian — a  happy- 
looking  lot,  certainly,  and  eager  for  the  housing  and 
comfort  of  the  ship.  But  one  dear  old  soul,  a  German 
music-master — any  one  could  tell  that  at  first  glance — 
was  in  no  hurry  for  the  cabin.  He  had  been  looking 
forward  to  that  trip.     Perhaps  this  was  his  first 

91 


The  ^hip -Dwellers 


sight  of  the  sea  and  shipping  and  all  the  things  he 
had  wanted  so  long.  He  came  to  where  I  was  looking 
over  the  rail,  his  head  bare,  his  white  hair  blowing  in 
the  wind.     He  looked  at  me  anxiously. 

"Haben  Sie  Deutsch?"  he  asked. 

I  confessed  that  I  still  had  a  small  broken  assort- 
ment of  German  on  hand,  such  as  it  was.  He  pointed 
excitedly  to  a  vessel  lying  near  us — a  ship  with  an 
undecipherable  name  in  the  Greek  character. 

"Greek,"  he  said,  **it  is  Greek — a  vessel  from 
Greece!" 

He  was  deeply  moved.  To  him  that  vessel — a 
rather  poor,  grimy  affair — with  its  name  in  the 
characters  of  Homer  and  ^schylus  was  a  thing  to 
make  his  blood  leap  and  his  eyes  grow  moist,  because 
to  him  it  meant  the  marvel  and  story  of  a  land  made 
visible — ^the  first  breath  of  realization  of  what  before 
had  just  been  a  golden  dream.  I  had  been  thinking 
of  those  things,  too.  We  did  not  mind  the  cold, 
and  stood  looking  down  at  the  Greek  vessel  while  we 
sailed  away. 

But  a  change  has  come  over  the  spirit  of  our  ship. 
It  is  a  good  ship  still,  with  a  goodly  company — only  it 
is  not  the  same.  We  lost  some  worthy  people  in  Genoa 
and  we  took  on  this  European  invasion.  It  is  edu- 
cational, and  here  in  the  smoking-room  I  could  pick 
up  all  the  languages  I  need  so  much  if  I  were  willing 
to  listen  and  had  an  ear  for  such  things.  I  could  pick 
up  customs,  too.  It  is  after  dinner,  and  the  smoking- 
room  is  crowded  with  mingled  races  of  both  sexes, 
who  have  come  in  for  their  coffee  and  their  cigarettes, 
their  gossip  and  their  games.     Over  there  in  one  cor- 

92 


We   Touch    at  Genoa 


ner  is  a  French  group  —  Parisian,  without  doubt  — 
the  women  are  certainly  that,  otherwise  they  could 
not  chatter  and  handle  their  cigarettes  in  that  dainty 
way — and  they  are  going-on  and  waving  their  hands 
and  turning  their  eyes  to  heaven  in  the  interest  and 
ecstasy  of  their  enjoyment.  Games  do  not  interest 
them — ^they  are  in  themselves  sufficient  diversion  to 
one  another. 

It  is  different  with  a  group  of  Germans  at  the  next 
table;  they  have  settled  down  to  cards — pinochle, 
likely  enough — and  they  are  playing  it  soberly — as 
soberly  as  that  other  group  who  are  absorbed  in  chess. 
At  still  another  table  a  game  of  poker  is  being  organ- 
ized, and  from  that  direction  comes  the  beloved 
American  tongue,  carrying  such  words  as  "What's 
the  blue  chips  worth?"  ** Shall  we  play  jack-pots?" 
''Does  the  dealer  ante?"  and  in  these  familiar  echoes 
I  recognize  the  voices  of  friends. 

The  centre  of  the  smoking-room  is  different.  The 
tables  there  are  filled  with  a  variegated  lot  of  men 
and  women,  all  talking  together,  each  pursuing  a  dif- 
ferent subject — each  speaking  a  language  of  his  own. 
Every  nation  of  Europe,  I  should  think,  is  represented 
there — it  is  a  sort  of  lingual  congress  in  open  session. 

The  Reprobates  no  longer  own  the  smoking-room. 
They  are  huddled  off  in  a  corner  over  their  game  of 
piquet,  and  they  have  a  sort  of  cowed,  helpless  look. 
Only  now  and  then  I  can  see  the  Colonel  jerk  his  hat 
a  bit  lower  and  hear  him  say,  *'Hell,  Joe!"  as  the 
Apostle  lay  down  his  final  cards.  Then  I  recognize 
that  we  are  still  here  and  somewhat  in  evidence, 
though  our  atmosphere  is  not  the  same. 
7  93 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


That  couldn't  be  expected.  When  you  have  set 
out  with  a  crowd  of  pleasure-seeking  irresponsibles, 
gathered  up  at  random,  and  have  become  a  bit  of 
the  amalgamation  which  takes  place  in  two  weeks' 
mixing,  you  somehow  feel  that  a  certain  unity  has 
resulted  from  the  process  and  you  are  reluctant  about 
seeing  it  disturbed.  You  feel  a  personal  loss  in  every 
face  that  goes — a  personal  grievance  in  every  stranger 
that  intrudes. 

The  ship's  family  has  become  a  sort  of  club.  It 
has  formed  itself  into  groups  and  has  discussed  its 
members  individually  and  cojlectively.  It  has  found 
out  their  business  and  perhaps  some  of  the  hopes 
and  ambitions — even  some  of  the  sorrows — of  each 
member.  Then,  suddenly,  here  is  a  new  group 
of  people  that  breaks  in.  You  know  nothing  about 
them — they  know  nothing  about  you.  They  are 
good  people,  and  you  will  learn  to  like  some  of  them — 
perhaps  all  of  them — in  time.  Yet  you  regard  them 
doubtfully.  Rearrangement  is  never  easy,  and  amal- 
gamation will  be  slow. 

Oh,  well,  it  is  ever  thus,  and  it  is  the  very  evan- 
escence of  things  that  makes  them  worth  while.  That 
old  crowd  of  ours  would  have  grown  deadly  tired  of 
one  another  if  there  hadn't  been  always  the  prospect 
and  imminence  of  change.  And,  anyhow,  this  is 
far  more  picturesque,  and  we  are  sailing  to-night 
before  the  wind,  over  a  smooth  sea,  for  Malta,  and  it 
has  grown  warm  outside  and  the  lights  of  Corsica  are 
on  our  starboard  bow. 


XIII 


MALTA,    A    LAND   OF   YESTERDAY 


WE  came  a  long  way  around  from  Algiers  to 
*' Malta  and  its  dependencies,"  the  little  group 
of  islands  which  lies  between  Sicily  and  the  African 
coast.  We  have  spent  two  days  at  sea,  meantime, 
but  they  were  rather  profitable  days,  for  when  one 
goes  capering  among  marvels,  as  we  do  ashore,  he 
needs  these  ship  days  to  get  his  impressions  sorted 
out  and  filed  for  reference. 

We  were  in  the  harbor  of  Valetta,  Malta,  when  we 
woke  this  morning — a  rather  dull  morning — and  a 
whole  felucca  of  boats — flotilla,  I  mean — had  appeared 
in  the  offing  to  take  us  ashore.  At  least,  I  suppose 
they  were  in  the  offing — I'm  going  to  look  that  word 
up,  by  and  by,  in  the  ship  dictionary,  and  see  what 
it  means.  They  have  different  boats  in  each  of  the 
places  we  have  visited — every  country  preserving  its 
native  pattern.  These  at  Malta  are  a  sort  of  gondola 
with  a  piece  sticking  up  at  each  end — for  ornament, 
probably — I  have  been  unable  to  figure  out  any  use 
for  the  feature. 

95 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


We  leaned  over  the  rail,  watching  them  and  ad- 
miring the  boatmen  while  we  tried  to  recognize  the 
native  language.  The  Diplomat  came  along  and 
informed  us  that  it  was  Arabic,  mixed  with  Italian, 
the  former  heavily  predominating.  The  Arabs  had 
once  occupied  the  island  for  two  hundred  and  twenty 
years,  he  said,  and  left  their  language,  their  archi- 
tecture, and  their  customs.  He  had  been  .trying  his 
Arabic  on  some  natives  who  had  come  aboard  and 
they  could  almost  understand  it. 

The  Patriarch,  who  had  been  early  on  deck,  came 
up  full  of  enthusiasm.  There  was  a  Phoenician  temple 
in  Malta  which  he  was  dying  to  visit.  It  was  the 
first  real  footprint,  thus  far,  of  his  favorite  tribe,  and 
though  we  have  learned  to  restrain  the  Patriarch 
when  he  unlimbers  on  Phoenicians,  we  let  him  get  off 
this  time,  softened,  perhaps,  by  the  thought  of  the 
ruined  temple. 

The  Phoenicians  had,  of  course,  been  the  first 
settlers  of  Malta,  he  told  us,  thirty-five  hundred 
years  ago,  when  Rome  had  not  been  heard  of  and 
Greece  was  mere  mythology ;  after  which  preliminary 
the  Patriarch  really  got  down  to  business. 

"We  are  told  by  Sanchuniathon,"  he  said,  "in  the 
Phoinikika,  which  was  not  only  a  cosmogony  but  a 
necrological  diptych,  translated  into  Greek  by  Philo 
of  Byblus,  with  commentary  by  Porphyry  and  pre- 
served by  Eusebius  in  fragmentary  form,  that  the 
Phoenicians  laid  the  foundations  of  the  world's  arts, 
sciences,  and  religions,  though  the  real  character  of 
their  own  faith  has  been  but  imperfectly  expiscated. 
We  are  told—" 

96 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 


The  Horse-Doctor  laid  his  hand  reverently  but 
firmly  on  the  Patriarch's  arm. 

"General,"  he  said  (the  Patriarch*s  ship  title  is 
General) — ''General,  we  all  love  you,  and  we  all  respect 
your  years  and  your  learning.  We  will  stand  almost 
anything  from  you,  even  the  Phoenicians;  but  don't 
crowd  us,  General — don't  take  advantage  of  our  good- 
nature. We'll  try  to  put  up  with  Sanchuniathon  and 
Porphyry  and  those  other  old  dubs,  but  when  you 
turned  loose  that  word  'expiscated*  I  nearly  lost 
control  of  myself  and  threw  you  overboard." 

The  bugle  blew  the  summons  to  go  ashore. 
Amidst  a  clatter  of  Maltese  we  descended  into  the 
boats  and  started  for  the  quay.  Sitting  thus  low 
down  upon  the  water,  one  could  get  an  idea  of  the 
little  shut-in  harbor,  one  of  the  deepest  and  finest  in 
the  world.  We  could  not  see  its  outlet,  or  the  open 
water,  for  the  place  is  like  a  jug,  and  the  sides  are 
high  and  steep.  They  are  all  fortified,  too,  and 
looking  up  through  the  gloomy  morning  at  the  grim 
bastions  and  things,  the  place  loomed  sombre  enough 
and  did  not  invite  enthusiasm.  It  was  too  much 
like  Gibraltar  in  its  atmosphere,  which  was  not 
surprising,  for  it  is  an  English  stronghold — ^the 
second  in  importance  in  these  waters.  Gibraltar 
is  the  gateway,  Malta  is  the  citadel  of  the  Mediter- 
ranean, and  England  to-day  commands  both. 

But  Malta  has  had  a  more  picturesque  history  than 
Gibraltar.  Its  story  has  been  not  unlike  that  of 
Algiers,  and  many  nations  have  fought  for  it  and  shed 
blood  and  romance  along  its  shores,  and  on  all  the 
lands  about.     We  touched  mythology,  too,  here,  for 

97 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


the  first  time;  and  Bible  history.  Long  ago,  even 
before  the  Phoenicians,  the  Cyclops — a  race  of  one- 
eyed  giants — owned  Malta,  and  here  Calypso,  daugh- 
ter of  Atlas,  lived  and  enchanted  Ulysses  when  he 
happened  along  this  way  and  was  shipwrecked  on 
the  ''wooded  island  of  Ogygia,  far  apart  from  men." 

I  am  glad  they  do  not  call  it  that  any  more.  It  is 
hard  to  say  Ogygia,  and  it  is  no  longer  a  wooded  isle. 
It  is  little  more  than  a  rock,  in  fact,  covered  with  a 
thin,  fertile  soil,  and  there  are  hardly  any  trees  to  be 
discovered  anywhere.  But  there  were  bowers  and 
groves  in  Ulysses'  time,  and  Calypso  wooed  him 
among  the  greenery  and  in  a  cave  which  is  pointed 
out  to  this  day.  She  promised  him  immortality  if 
he  would  forget  his  wife  and  native  land,  and  marry 
her,  but  Ulysses  postponed  his  decision,  and  after  a 
seven-year  sample  of  the  matrimony  concluded  he 
didn't  care  for  perpetual  existence  on  those  terms. 

Calypso  bore  him  two  sons,  and  when  he  sailed 
away  died  of  grief.  Ulysses  returned  to  Penelope, 
but  he  was  disqualified  for  the  simple  life  of  Ithaca, 
and  after  he  had  slain  her  insolent  suitors  and  told 
everybody  about  his  travels  he  longed  to  go  sailing 
away  again  to  other  adventures  and  islands,  and 
Calypsos,  perhaps,  ''beyond  the  baths  of  all  the 
western  stars."     Such  was  life  even  then. 

The  Biblical  interest  of  Malta  concerns  a  shipwreck, 
too.  St.  Paul  on  his  way  to  Italy  to  preach  the 
gospel  was  caught  in  a  great  tempest,  the  Eurocly- 
don,  which  continued  for  fourteen  days.  Acts  xxvii, 
xxviii  contain  the  story,  which  is  very  interesting  and 
beautiful. 

98 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 


Here  is  a  brief  summary. 

"And  when  the  ship  was  caught,  and  could  not 
bear  up  in  the  wind,  we  let  her  drive.  .  .  . 

**And  when  neither  sun  nor  stars  in  many  days 
appeared,  and  no  small  tempest  lay  upon  us,  all  hope 
that  we  should  be  saved  was  taken  away." 

Paul  comforted  them  and  told  how  an  angel  had 
stood  by  him,  assuring  him  that  he,  Paul,  would 
appear  before  C^sar  and  that  all  with  him  would  be 
saved.  ''Howbeit,  we  must  be  cast  upon  a  certain 
island." 

The  island  was  Melita  {i.e.,  Malta),  and  "falling 
into  a  place  where  two  seas  met,  they  ran  the  ship 
aground." 

There  were  two  hundred  and  sixteen  souls  in  the 
vessel,  and  all  got  to  land  somehow. 

"And  the  barbarous  people  showed  us  no  little 
kindness:  for  they  kindled  a  fire  and  received  us 
every  one,  because  of  the  present  rain,  and  because  of 
the  cold." 

Paul  remained  three  months  in  Malta  and  preached 
the  gospel  and  performed  miracles  there,  which  is  a 
better  record  than  Ulysses  made.  He  also  banished 
the  poison  snakes,  it  is  said.  It  was  the  Euroclydon 
that  swept  the  trees  from  Malta,  and  nineteen  hundred 
years  have  not  repaired  the  ravage  of  that  storm. 

Gods,  Phoenicians,  Greeks,  Carthaginians,  Romans, 
Arabs,  Normans,  Germans,  Spanish,  Knights  of  Jeru- 
salem, French,  and  English  have  all  battled  for  Malta 
because  of  its  position  as  a  stronghold,  a  watch-tower 
between  the  eastern  and  western  seas.  All  of  them 
have  fortified  it  more  or  less,  until  to-day  it  is  a  sort  of 

99 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


museum  of  military  works,  occupied  and  aban- 
doned. 

After  the  Gods,  the  Phoenicians  were  the  first 
occupants,  and  with  all  due  deference  to  the  Patriarch, 
they  were  skedaddling  out  of  Canaan  at  the  time, 
because  Joshua  was  transacting  a  little  business  in 
warfare  which  convinced  them  that  it  was  time  to 
grow  up  with  new  countries  farther  west.  The 
Knights  of  Jerusalem — also  known  as  the  Knights 
of  St.  John  and  the  Knights  of  Rhodes — ^were  the 
last  romantic  inheritors.  The  Knights  were  originally 
hospital  nurses  who  looked  after  pilgrims  that  went 
to  visit  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  nearly  a  thousand  years 
ago.  They  became  great  soldiers  in  time :  knightly 
crusaders  with  sacred  vows  of  chastity  and  service  to 
the  Lord.  Charles  V.  of  Spain  gave  them  the  Island  of 
Malta,  and  they  became  the  Knights  of  Malta  hence- 
forth. They  did  not  maintain  their  vows  by  and  by, 
but  became  profligates  and  even  pirates.  Meantime 
they  had  rendered  mighty  service  to  the  Mediter- 
ranean and  the  world  at  large. 

They  prevented  the  terrible  Turk  from  overrunning 
and  possessing  all  Europe.  Under  John  de  la  Valette, 
the  famous  Grand  Master,  Malta  stood  a  Turkish  siege 
that  lasted  four  months,  with  continuous  assault  and 
heavy  bombardments.  The  Turks  gave  it  up  at  last 
and  sailed  away,  after  a  loss  of  over  twenty  thousand 
men. 

Only  seven  thousand  Maltese  and  two  hundred  and 
sixty  knights  were  killed,  and  it  is  said  that  before  he 
died  each  knight  had  anywhere  from  fifty  to  a  hundred 
dead  Turks  to  his  credit.     It  must  have  been  hard  to 

lOO 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Testerday 


kill  a  knight  in  those  days.  I  suppose  they  wore 
consecrated  armor  and  talismans,  and  were  strength- 
ened by  special  benedictions.  And  this  all  happened 
in  1565,  after  which  La  Valette  decided  to  build  a 
city,  and  on  the  28th  of  March,  1566,  laid  the  comer- 
stone  of  Valetta,  our  anchorage. 

It  is  a  curious  place  and  interesting.  When  we 
landed  at  the  quay  our  vehicles  were  waiting  for  us, 
and  these  were  our  first  entertainment.  They  resem- 
bled the  little  affairs  of  Gibraltar,  but  were  more 
absurd,  I  think.  They  had  funny  canopy  tops — 
square  parasol  things  with  fancy  edges — and  there  was 
no  room  inside  for  a  tall  man  with  knees.  I  was  only 
partly  in  my  conveyance,  and  I  would  have  been  will- 
ing to  have  been  out  of  it  altogether,  only  we  were 
going  up  a  steep  hill  and  I  couldn't  get  out  without 
damage  to  something  or  somebody.  Then  we  passed 
through  some  gates  and  entered  the  city. 

I  don't  think  any  of  us  had  any  clear  idea  of  what 
Malta  was  like.  It  is  another  of  those  places  that 
every  one  has  heard  of  and  nobody  knows  about. 
We  all  knew  about  Maltese  cats  because  we  had 
cats  more  or  less  Maltese  at  home,  and  we  had  heard 
of  the  Knights  of  Malta  and  of  Maltese  lace.  But 
some  of  us  thought  Malta  was  a  city  on  the  north 
shore  of  Africa  and  the  rest  of  us  believed  it  to  be  an 
island  in  the  Persian  Gulf.* 

However,  these  slight  inaccuracies  do  not  disturb 


*  There  wotild  seem  to  have  been  some  sort  of  confusion  of 
Malta  with  the  city  of  Muscat.  Perhaps  the  reader  can  figure  out 
just  what  it  was.  It  had  something  to  do  with  domestic  pets,  I 
believe. 

lOI 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


us  any  more.  We  have  learned  to  accept  places 
where  and  as  we  find  them,  without  undue  surprise. 
If  we  should  awake  some  morning  in  a  strange  har- 
bor and  be  told  that  it  was  Sheol,  we  would  merely  say : 

'*0h  yes,  certainly;  we  knew  it  was  down  here 
somewhere.     When  can  we  go  ashore?" 

Then  we  would  set  out  sight-seeing  and  shopping 
without  further  remark,  some  of  us  still  serene  in  the 
conviction  that  it  was  an  African  seaport,  the  rest 
believing  it  to  be  an  island  in  the  Persian  Gulf. 

But  there  were  no  Maltese  cats  in  Malta — ^not  that  I 
saw,  and  no  knights,  I  think.  What  did  strike  us  first 
was  a  herd  of  goats,  goatesses  I  mean,  being  driven 
along  from  house  to  house  and  supplying  milk.  They 
were  the  mildest-eyed,  most  inoffensive  little  creatures 
in  the  world,  and  can  carry  more  milk  for  their  size 
than  any  other  mammal,  unless  I  am  a  poor  judge. 
They  did  not  seem  to  be  under  any  restraint,  but  they 
never  wandered  far  away  from  their  master.  They 
nibbled  and  loafed  along,  and  were  ready  for  business 
at  call.  They  seemed  much  more  reliable  than  any 
cows  of  my  acquaintance. 

But  presently  I  forgot  the  goats,  for  a  woman  came 
along — several  women — and  they  wore  a  black  head- 
gear of  alpaca  or  silk,  a  cross  between  a  sunbonnet 
and  a  nun's  veil — hooped  out  on  one  side  and  looped 
in  on  the  other — a  curious  head-gear,  but  not  a  bad 
setting  for  a  handsome  face.  And  those  ladies  had 
handsome  faces — rich,  oval  faces,  with  lustrous  eyes 
— and  the  faldette  (they  call  it  that)  made  a  back- 
ground that  melted  into  their  wealth  of  atramentous 
hair. 

I02 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 


We  have  not  seen  handsome  native  women  before, 
but  they  are  plentiful  enough  here.  None  of  them 
are  really  bad  -  looking,  and  every  other  one  is  a 
beauty,  by  my  standards. 

We  were  well  up  into  the  city  now,  and  could  see 
what  the  place  was  like.  The  streets  were  not  over- 
wide,  and  the  houses  had  an  Oriental  look,  with  their 
stuccoed  walls  and  their  projecting  Arab  windows. 
They  were  full  of  people  and  donkeys — very  small 
donkeys  with  great  pack  baskets  of  vegetables  and 
other  merchandise — but  we  could  not  well  observe 
these  things  because  of  the  beggars  and  bootblacks 
and  would-be  guides,  besides  all  the  sellers  of  postal 
cards  and  trinkets. 

It  was  worse  than  Madeira,  worse  than  Gibral- 
tar, worse  even  than  Algiers.  England  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  herself  to  permit,  in  one  of  her  posses- 
sions, such  lavish  and  ostentatious  poverty  as  exists  in 
Malta.  When  we  got  out  of  the  carriages  we  were 
overwhelmed.  They  stormed  around  us;  they  sepa- 
rated us;  they  fought  over  us;  they  were  ready  to 
devour  us  piecemeal.  Some  of  us  escaped  into 
shops — some  into  the  museum — some  into  St.  John's 
Cathedral,  which  was  across  the  way. 

Laura  and  I  were  among  the  last  named,  and  we 
drew  a  long  breath  as  we  slipped  into  that  magnificent 
place.  We  rejoiced  a  little  too  soon,  however,  for  a 
second  later  we  were  nabbed  by  a  guide,  and  there  was 
no  escape.  We  couldn't  make  a  row  in  a  church, 
especially  as  services  were  going  on;  at  least,  we  didn't 
think  it  safe  to  try. 

It  is  a  magnificent  church — the  most  elaborately 

103 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


decorated,  I  believe,  in  all  Europe.  Grand  Master 
John  L'Eveque  de  la  Cassar,  at  his  own  expense,  put 
up  the  building,  and  all  Europe  contributed  to  its 
wealth  and  splendor.  Its  spacious  floor  is  one  vast 
mosaic  of  memorial  tablets  to  dead  heroes.  There 
are  four  hundred  richly  inlaid  slabs,  each  bearing  a 
coat  of  arms  and  inscriptions  in  colors.  They  are 
wonderfully  beautiful;  no  other  church  in  the  world 
has  such  a  floor.  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  who  was  a 
greater  vandal  than  a  soldier,  allowed  his  troops  to 
rifle  St.  John's  when  he  took  possession  of  Malta  in 
T798.  But  there  are  riches  enough  there  now  and  ap- 
parently Napoleon  did  not  deface  the  edifice  itself. 

The  tipper  part  of  the  Cathedral  can  only  be  com- 
prehended in  the  single  word  *  *  gorgeous. ' '  To  attempt 
to  put  into  sentences  any  impressions  of  its  lavish 
ceiling  and  decorations  and  furnishings  would  be  to 
cheapen  a  thing  which,  though  ornate,  is  not  cheap 
and  does  not  look  so.  There  are  paintings  by  Cor- 
reggio  and  other  Italian  masters,  and  rare  sacred 
statuary,  and  there  is  a  solid  silver  altar  rail  which 
Napoleon  did  not  carry  off  because  a  thoughtful 
priest  quickly  gave  it  a  coat  of  lampblack  when  he 
heard  the  soldiers  coming. 

The  original  keys  of  Jerusalem  and  several  other 
holy  places  are  said  to  be  in  one  of  the  chapels,  and 
in  another  is  a  thorn  from  the  Saviour's  crown,  the 
stones  with  which  St.  Stephen  was  martyred,  and 
some  apostolic  bones.  These  things  are  as  likely  to  be 
here  as  anywhere,  and  one  of  the  right  hands  of  John 
the  Baptist,  encased  in  a  gold  glove,  was  here  when 
Napoleon  came.     Napoleon  took  up  the  hand  and 

104 


Malta,  a  Land   of  Yesterday 


slipped  off  a  magnificent  diamond  ring  from  one  of 
the  fingers.  Then  he  sHpped  the  ring  on  his  own 
finger  and  tossed  the  hand  aside. 

''Keep  the  carrion,"  he  said. 

They  hate  the  memory  of  Napoleon  in  Malta  to 
this  day. 

The  ceiling  of  the  church  is  a  mass  of  gold  and  color, 
and  there  are  chapels  along  the  sides,  each  trying  to 
outdo  the  next  in  splendor.  I  am  going  to  stop  descrip- 
tion right  here,  for  I  could  do  nothing  with  the  details. 

I  have  mentioned  that  services  were  in  progress, 
but  it  did  not  seem  to  interfere  with  our  sight-seeing. 
It  would  in  America,  but  it  doesn't  in  Malta.  There 
was  chanting  around  the  altar,  and  there  were  wor- 
shippers kneeling  all  about,  but  our  guide  led  us 
among  them  and  over  them  as  if  they  had  not 
existed.  It  seemed  curious  to  us  that  he  could  do 
this,  that  we  could  follow  him  unmolested.  We  tried 
to  get  up  some  feeling  of  delicacy  m  the  matter,  and 
to  make  some  show  of  reluctance,  but  he  led  us  and 
drove  us  along  relentlessly,  and  did  not  seem  to  fear 
the  consequences. 

We  got  outside  at  last  and  were  nailed  by  a  frowsy 
man  who  wanted  to  sell  one  grimy  postal  card  of  the 
Chapel  of  Bones.  We  didn't  want  the  card,  but  we 
said  he  might  take  us  to  the  chapel  if  he  knew  the 
way.  Nothing  so  good  as  that  ever  came  into  his 
life  before.  From  a  mendicant  seller  of  one  wretched 
card,  worth  a  penny  at  most,  he  had  suddenly  blos- 
somed into  the  guide  of  two  American  tourists.  The 
card  disappeared.  With  head  erect  he  led  the  way  as 
one  having  received  knighthood. 

105 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Our  crowd  was  waiting  admission  outside  the  chapel 
and  we  did  not  need  our  guide  any  more.  But  that 
didn't  matter — he  needed  us.  He  accepted  his  salary 
to  date,  but  he  did  not  accept  his  discharge.  We 
went  into  the  Chapel  of  Bones,  which  is  a  rather 
grewsome  place,  with  a  lot  of  decorations  made  out 
of  bleached  human  remnants — not  a  pleasant  spot 
in  which  to  linger — and  when  we  came  out  again  there 
was  our  guide,  ready  to  take  us  in  hand.  We  resisted 
feebly,  but  surrendered.  We  didn't  care  for  the 
regular  programme  and  wanted  to  wander  away,  any- 
how. He  suggested  that  we  go  to  the  Governor's 
palace  and  armory,  so  we  went  there. 

The  armory  was  worth  while.  It  was  full  of  armor 
of  the  departed  knights  and  of  old  arms  of  every 
sort.  We  think  breech-loading  guns  are  modern,  but 
we  saw  them  there  from  the  sixteenth  century — long, 
deadly-looking  weapons — and  there  were  rope  guns; 
also  little  mortars  not  more  than  three  or  four  inches 
deep — mere  toys — a  stout  man  with  a  pile  of  rocks 
would  be  more  effective,  I  should  think. 

We  saw  the  trumpet,  too,  that  led  La  Valet te  to 
victory  in  1 565,  and  some  precious  documents — among 
them  the  Grant  of  Malta  made  by  Charles  V.  to  the 
knights,  1530.  These  were  interesting  things  and  we 
lingered  there  until  within  a  minute  of  noon,  when  we 
went  out  into  the  grounds  to  see  the  great  bronze 
clock  on  the  Governor's  palace  strike  twelve. 

And  all  the  rest  of  our  party  had  collected  in  the 
grounds  of  the  Governor's  palace,  and  pretty  soon  the 
Governor  came  out  and  made  us  a  little  speech  of 
welcome  and  invited  us  to  luncheon  on  the  lawn, 

106 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 


with  cold  chicken  and  ices  and  nice  fizzy  drinks.  No, 
that  was  not  what  happened — not  exactly.  Our 
crowd  was  not  there,  and  we  did  not  see  the  Gov- 
ernor and  we  were  not  invited  to  picnic  on  the  lawn. 
Otherwise  the  statement  is  correct.  We  did  go  out 
into  the  grounds,  and  we  did  see  the  clock  strike. 
The  other  things  are  what  we  thought  should  happen, 
and  they  would  have  happened  if  we  had  received 
our  just  deserts. 

Well,  then,  those  things  did  not  materialize,  but 
our  guide  did.  He  would  always  materialize,  so  long 
as  we  stayed  in  Malta.  So  we  re-engaged  him  and 
signified  that  we  wanted  food.  He  led  us  away  to 
what  seemed  to  be  a  hotel,  but  the  clerk,  who  did  not 
speak  English,  regarded  us  doubtfully.  Then  the 
landlord  came.  He  had  a  supply  of  English  but  no 
food.  No  one  is  fed  at  a  hotel  in  Malta  who  has  not 
ordered  in  advance.  At  least,  that  is  what  he  said, 
and  we  went  away,  sorrowing. 

We  were  not  alone.  A  crowd  had  collected  while 
we  were  inside — a  crowd  of  the  would-be  guides  and 
already  beggars,  with  sellers  and  torments  of  various 
kinds.  We  w^ere  assailed  as  soon  as  we  touched  the 
street,  and  our  guide,  who  was  not  very  robust,  was 
not  entirely  able  to  protect  us  from  them.  He  did 
steer  us  to  a  restaurant,  however,  a  decent  enough 
little  place,  and  on  the  steps  outside  they  disputed 
for  us  and  wrangled  over  us  and  divided  us  up  while 
we  ate.  It  was  like  the  powers  getting  ready  to  dis- 
member China. 

We  laid  out  our  programme  for  the  afternoon.  We 
wanted  to  get  some  Maltese  lace,  and  to  make  a  little 

107 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


side  trip  by  rail  to  Citta  Vecchia  (the  old  city)  which 
two  native  gentlemen  at  our  table  told  us  would 
give  us  a  good  idea  of  the  country.  Then  we  paid 
our  bill,  had  a  battle  with  a  bootblack  who  had  sur- 
reptitiously been  polishing  my  shoes,  fought  our  way 
through  the  barbarians  without,  and  finally  escaped 
by  sheer  flight,  our  guide  at  our  heels. 

We  told  him  that  we  wanted  lace.  Ah,  a  smile 
that  was  like  morning  overspread  his  face.  He 
took  us  to  a  large  shop,  where  we  found  some  of 
our  friends  already  negotiating,  but  we  did  not 
linger.  We  said  we  wanted  to  find  a  little  shop — 
a  place  where  it  was  made.  He  led  us  to  another 
bazaar.  Again  we  said,  "No,  a  little  shop — a  very 
little  shop,  on  a  back  street." 

Clearly  he  was  disappointed.  He  did  find  one  for 
us,  however,  a  tiny  place  in  an  alley,  with  two  bent, 
wrinkled  women  weaving  lace  outside  the  door. 

How  their  deft  fingers  made  those  little  bobbins  fly, 
and  what  beautiful  stuff  it  was,  creamy  white  silk  in 
the  most  wonderful  patterns  and  stitches.  They 
showed  us  their  stock  eagerly,  and  they  had  masses  of 
it.  Then  we  bargained  and  cheapened  and  haggled,  in 
the  approved  fashion  we  have  picked  up  along  the 
way,  and  went  off  at  last  with  our  purchases,  every- 
body happy — they  because  they  would  have  taken 
less,  we  because  we  would  have  given  more.  Only 
our  guide  was  a  bit  solemn.  I  suppose  his  commission 
was  modest  enough  in  a  place  like  that. 

He  took  us  to  the  railway-station — ^the  only  railway 
in  Malta.  Then  I  made  a  discovery:  we  had  no 
current  coin  of  the  realm  and  the  railway  would  take 

io8 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 


only  English  money.  No  matter.  We  had  dis- 
charged our  guide  three  times  and  paid  him  each 
separate  time.  He  was  a  capitalist  now,  and  he 
promptly    advanced    the    needed    funds.     We    were 


TWO    BENT,    WRINKLED    WOMEN    WEAV- 
ING   LACE    OUTSIDE    THE    DOOR 


grateful,  and  invited  him  to  go  along.  But  he  said 
"No,"  that  he  would  remain  at  the  station  until  our 
return. 

He  was  faithful,  you  see,  and  he  trusted  us.  Be- 
sides, we  couldn't  escape.  There  was  only  that  one 
road  and  train.  We  took  our  seats  in  an  open  car,  on 
account  of  the  scenery.  We  didn't  know  it  was  third- 
class  till  later,  but  we  didn't  mind  that.  What  we 
did  mind  was  plunging  into  a  thick,  black,  choking 
8  109 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


tunnel  as  soon  as  we  started ;  then  another  and  another. 
This  was  scenery  with  a  vengeance. 

We  were  out  at  last,  and  in  a  different  world.  What- 
ever was  modern  in  Malta  had  been  left  behind.  This 
was  wholly  Eastern — Syrian — a  piece  out  of  the  Holy 
Land,  if  the  pictures  tell  us  the  truth.  Everywhere 
were  the  one-story,  fiat-topped  architecture  and  the 
olive-trees  of  the  Holy  Land  pictures;  everywhere 
stony  fields  and  myriads  of  stone  walls. 

At  a  bound  we  had  come  from  what  was  only  a  few 
hundred  years  ago,  mingled  with  to-day,  to  what  was 
a  few  thousand  years  ago,  mingled  with  nothing 
modern  whatever.  There  is  no  touch  of  English 
dominion  here,  or  French,  or  Italian.  This  might  be 
Syrian  or  Moorish;  it  might  be,  and  is  Maltese. 

We  saw  men  ploughing  with  a  single  cow  and  a 
crooked  stick  in  a  manner  that  has  prevailed  here 
always.  We  mentioned  the  matter  to  our  railway- 
conductor,  who  was  a  sociable  person  and  had  not 
much  to  do. 

''You  are  from  America,"  he  said. 

**Yes,  we  are  from  America." 

"And  do  they  use  different  ploughs  there?" 

He  spoke  the  English  of  the  colonies,  and  it  seemed 
incredible  that  he  should  not  know  about  these  things. 
We  broke  it  to  him  as  gently  as  possible  that  we  did 
not  plough  with  a  crooked  stick  in  America,  but  with 
such  ploughs  as  were  used  in  England.  However, 
that  meant  nothing  to  him,  as  he  had  never  been  off 
the  island  of  Malta  in  his  life.  His  name  was  Carina, 
he  told  us,  and  his  parents  and  grandparents  before 
him  had  been  bom  on  the  island.     Still,  I  think  he 

no 


Malta,  a  Land  of  Yesterday 


must  have  had  EngHsh  or  Irish  pigment  in  that  red 
hair  of  his.  His  EngHsh  was  perfect,  though  he 
spoke  the  Maltese,  too,  of  course. 

He  became  our  guide  as  we  went  along,  willing  and 
generous  with  his  information,  though  more  interested, 
I  thought,  in  the  questions  he  modestly  asked  us,  now 
and  then.  His  whole  environment — all  his  traditions 
— had  been  confined  to  that  little  sea-encircled  space 
of  old,  old  town,  and  older,  much  older  country. 

He  would  like  to  come  to  America,  he  confessed, 
and  I  wondered,  if  some  day  he  should  steam  up  New 
York  harbor  and  look  upon  that  piled  architecture, 
and  then  should  step  ashore  and  find  himself  amidst 
its  whirl  of  traffic,  he  would  not  be  even  more  im- 
pressed by  it  than  we  were  with  his  tiny  forgotten 
island  here  to  the  south  of  Sicily. 

We  passed  little  stations,  now  and  then,  with  pretty 
stone  and  marble  station-houses,  but  with  no  villages 
of  any  consequence,  and  came  to  Citta  Vecchia, 
which  the  Arabs  called  Medina,  formerly  the  capital 
of  the  island.  It  is  a  very  ancient  place,  set  upon  a 
hill  and  bastioned  round  with  walls  that  are  too  high 
to  scale,  and  were  once  impregnable.  It  has  stood 
many  an  assault  —  many  a  long-protracted  siege. 
To-day  it  is  a  place  of  crumbling  ruins  and  deserted 
streets — ^a  mediaeval  dream. 

It  was  raining  when  we  got  back  to  Valetta,  and 
our  faithful  guide  hurried  us  toward  the  boat-landing 
by  a  short  way,  for  we  were  anxious  to  get  home  now. 
Every  few  yards  we  were  assailed  by  hackmen  and 
beggars,  and  by  boatmen  as  soon  as  we  reached  the 
pier.     He  kept  us  intact,  however,  and  got  us  into 

III 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


our  own  boat,  received  the  rest  of  his  fortune — enough 
to  set  him  up  for  life,  by  Maltese  standards — ^waved  us 
good-bye,  and  we  were  being  navigated  across  the  wide, 
rainy  waste  toward  our  steamer,  which  seemed  to  fill 
one  side  of  that  little  harbor. 

What  a  joy  to  be  on  deck  again  and  in  the  cosey 
cabin,  drinking  hot  tea  and  talking  over  our  advent- 
ures and  purchases  with  our  fellow- wanderers.  The 
ship  is  home,  rest,  comfort — a  world  apart.  We  are 
weighing  anchor  now,  and  working  our  course  out  of 
the  bottle-neck,  to  sea.  It  is  a  narrow  opening — a 
native  pilot  directs  us  through  it  and  leaves  the  ship 
only  at  the  gateway.  Then  we  sail  through  and  out 
into  the  darkening  sky  where  a  storm  is  gathering — 
the  green  billows  catching  the  dusk  purple  on  their 
tips,  the  gulls  white  as  they  breast  the  rising  wind. 

We  gather  on  the  after  deck  to  say  good-bye  to 
Malta.  Wall  upon  wall,  terrace  upon  terrace  it  rises 
from  the  sea — heaped  and  piled  back  against  the  hills 
— as  old,  as  quaint,  as  unchanged  as  it  was  a  thousand 
years  ago.  Viewed  in  this  spectral  half-light  it  might 
be  any  one  of  the  ancient  cities.  Ephesus,  Antioch, 
Tyre — it  suggests  all  those  names,  and  we  speak  of 
these  things  in  low  voices,  awed  by  the  spectacle  of 
gathering  night  and  storm. 

Then,  as  the  picture  fades,  we  return  to  the  lighted 
cabins,  where  it  is  gay  and  cheerful  and  modern, 
while  there  in  the  dark  behind,  that  old  curious 
island  life  still  goes  on;  those  curious  shut-in  people 
are  gathering  in  their  houses;  the  day,  with  its  cares, 
its  worries,  and  its  hopes  is  closing  in  on  that  tiny 
speck,  set  in  that  dark  and  lonely  sea. 

112 


XIV 

A    SUNDAY    AT    SEA 

WE  are  in  classic  waters  now.  All  this  bleak  Sun- 
day we  have  been  steaming  over  the  Ionian  Sea, 
crossed  so  long  ago  by  Ulysses  when  he  went  exploring ; 
crossed  and  recrossed  a  hundred  times  by  the  galleyed 
fleets  of  Rome.  We  have  followed  the  exact  course, 
perhaps,  of  those  old  triremes  with  their  piled -up 
banks  of  oars,  when  they  sailed  away  to  conquer  the 
East,  also  when  they  returned  loaded  down  with 
captives  and  piled  high  with  treasure. 

A  little  while  ago  Cythera  was  on  our  port  bow, 
the  island  where  Aphrodite  was  bom  of  wind  and 
wave,  and  presently  set  out  to  make  trouble  among 
the  human  family.  She  and  her  son  Cupid,  who  has 
always  been  too  busy  to  grow  up,  have  a  good  deal  to 
answer  for,  and  they  are  still  at  their  mischief,  and 
will  be,  no  doubt,  so  long  as  men  are  brave  and  women 
fair. 

However,  they  seemed  to  have  overlooked  this 
ship.  There  is  only  one  love-affair  discoverable,  and 
even  that  is  of  such  a  mild  academic  variety  that  it 
is  doubtful  whether  that  tricksy  jade  Venus  and  her 
dimpled  son  had  any  concern  in  the  matter.  It  is 
rather  a  case  of  Diana's  hunting,  I  suspect,  and  not 
a  love-affair  at  all. 

I  have  mentioned  that  this  is  Sunday,  but  I  acquired 

113 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


this  knowledge  from  the  calendar.  One  would  never 
guess  it  from  the  aspect  of  this  ship  and  its  company. 
We  made  a  pretty  good  attempt  at  Sabbath  observ- 
ance the  first  Sunday  out,  and  we  did  something  in 
that  line  a  week  later.  But  then  we  struck  Genoa, 
where  we  lost  the  Promoter  and  took  on  this  European 
influx  of  languages,  and  now  Sunday  is  the  same  as 
Friday  or  Tuesday  or  any  other  day,  and  it  would 
take  an  expert  to  tell  the  difference, 

I  do  not  blame  it  all  to  the  Europeans.  They  are  a 
good  lot,  I  believe,  some  of  them  I  am  sure  are,  and 
we  have  taken  to  them  amazingly.  They  did  teach 
us  a  few  new  diversions,  but  we  were  ready  for  in- 
struction and  the  Reprobates  would  have  corrupted 
us  anyhow,  so  it  is  no  matter.  The  new-comers 
only  stimulated  our  education  and  added  variety  to 
our  progress.  But  they  did  make  it  bad  for  Sunday — 
the  old-fashioned  Sunday,  such  as  we  had  the  first 
week  out. 

Not  that  our  ** pilgrims"  are  a  bad  lot — not  by  any 
means.  They  do  whoop  it  up  pretty  lively  in  the 
booze-bazaar  now  and  then,  and  even  a  number  of 
our  American  ladies  have  developed  a  weakness  for 
that  congenial  corner  of  the  ship.  But  everything  is 
p.  p.,  which  is  Kurfiirst  for  perfectly  proper,  and  on 
this  particular  Sunday  you  could  not  scrape  up 
enough  real  sin  on  this  ship  to  interest  Satan  five 
minutes. 

Even  the  Reprobates  are  not  entirely  abandoned, 
and  only  three  different  parties  have  been  removed 
from  their  table  in  the  dining-saloon  by  request  — 
request  of  the  parties,   that  is — said  parties  being 

114 


A  Sunday  at  Sea 


accustomed  to  the  simpler  life — pleasant  diversions 
of  the  home  circle,  as  it  were — and  not  to  the  sparkle 
and  the  flow  of  good-fellowship  on  the  high  seas,  with 
the  hon  mot  of  the  Horse-Doctor,  the  repartee  of  the 
Colonel,  and  the  placid  expletive  of  the  Apostle 
which  the  rest  of  us  are  depraved  enough  to  adore. 

The  Apostle,  by- the- way,  is  going  to  Jerusalem.  He 
has  been  there  before,  which  he  does  not  offer  as  a 
reason  for  going  again,  for  he  found  no  comfort  there, 
and  he  is  unable  to  furnish  the  Doctor  with  a  sane 
reason  why  any  one  should  ever  want  to  go  there, 
even  once.  I  suspect  that  when  the  sale  of  tickets 
for  the  side  trips  began  the  Apostle,  in  his  innocence, 
feared  that  there  might  not  be  enough  to  go  around, 
and  thought  that  he  had  better  secure  one  in  case  of 
accident.  I  suspect  this  from  his  manner  of  urging 
the  Doctor  to  secure  one  for  himself. 

"You'll  be  too  late,  if  you're  not  careful,"  he  said. 
"You'd  better  go  right  up  and  get  your  ticket  now." 

The  Doctor  was  not  alarmed.  "Don't  worry,  Joe," 
he  said.  "You're  booked  for  Jerusalem,  all  right 
enough.     I'll  get  mine  when  I  decide  to  go." 

"But  suppose  you  decide  to  go  after  the  party  is 
made  up?" 

The  Doctor  stroked  his  chin.  "  Hell-of-a-note  if  I 
can't  go  ashore  and  buy  a  ticket  for  Jerusalem,"  he 
said,  which  had  not  occurred  to  the  Apostle,  who 
immediately  remembered  that  he  didn't  want  to  go 
to  Jerusalem  anyway,  had  never  wanted  to  go,  and 
had  vowed,  before,  he  would  never  go  again. 

However,  he  will  go,  because  the  Colonel  is  going; 
and  the  Colonel  is  going  because,  as  the  Doctor  still 

1^5 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


insists,  he  made  his  money  by  publishing  Bibles  with- 
out reading  them,  which  I  think  doubtful — not  doubt- 
ful that  he  did  not  read  them,  but  that  he  is  going  to 
the  Holy  Land  in  consequence.  I  think  he  is  going 
because  he  knows  the  Apostle  is  going — and  the  Doc- 
tor, and  the  game  of  piquet.  Those  are  reasons 
enough  for  the  Colonel.  He  is  ready  at  a  moment's 
notice  to  follow  that  combination  around  the  world. 

But  if  we  no  longer  have  services  on  these  sea 
Sundays  we  have  other  features.  The  Music-Master 
plays  for  us,  if  encouraged,  and  he  gave  us  a  lecture 
this  afternoon.  It  was  on  ancient  music,  or  art,  or 
archaeology,  I  am  not  sure  which.  I  listened  atten- 
tively and  I  am  pretty  sure  it  was  one  of  those  things. 
He  is  a  delightful  old  soul  and  his  German  is  the  best 
I  ever  heard.  If  I  could  have  about  ten  years'  steady 
practice,  twelve  hours  a  day,  I  think  I  could  under- 
stand some  of  it. 

The  ''Widow"  entertains  us  too.  She  belongs  to 
the  Genoa  contingent,  and  is  one  of  those  European 
polyglots  who  speak  every  continental  language  and 
make  a  fair  attempt  at  English.  It  is  her  naivete 
and  unfailing  good-nature  that  divert  us.  She  ap- 
proached one  of  our  American  ladies  who  wears 
black. 

"You  a  widow,  not?"  she  said. 

''Oh  no,  I  am  not  a  widow." 

"Ah,  then  mebbe  you  yus'  divorce,  like  me." 

We  get  along  well  with  the  Europeans.  Our  cap- 
tain tells  us  he  has  never  seen  the  nations  mix  more 
harmoniously,  which  means  that  we  are  a  good  lot, 
altogether,  which  is  fortunate  enough. 

ii6 


A  Su?iday   at  Sea 


But  I  am  prone  to  run  on  about  the  ship  and  our 
travellers  and  forget  graver  things;  I  ought  to  be 
writing  about  Greece,  I  suppose,  and  of  the  wonders 
we  are  going  to  see,  to-morrow,  in  Athens.  I  would 
do  it,  only  I  haven't  read  the  guide-book  yet,  and 
then  I  have  a  notion  that  Greece  has  been  done  be- 
fore. The  old  Quaker  City  was  quarantined  and  did 
not  land  her  people  in  Greece  (except  two  parties  who 
went  by  night),  and  the  "Innocents"  furnishes  only 
that  fine  description  of  the  Acropolis  by  moonlight. 

But  a  good  many  other  excursionists  have  landed 
there,  and  most  of  them  have  told  about  it,  in  one  way 
and  another.  Now  it  is  my  turn,  but  I  shall  wait. 
I  have  already  waited  a  long  time  for  Athens — I  do 
not  need  to  begin  the  story  just  yet.  Instead  I  have 
come  out  here  on  deck  to  look  across  to  Peloponnesus, 
which  has  risen  out  of  the  sea,  a  long  gray  shore,  our 
first  sight  of  the  mainland  where  heroes  battled  and 
mythology  was  bom. 

I  expected  the  shores  of  Greece  would  look  like  that 
— bleak,  barren,  and  forbidding.  I  don't  know  why, 
but  that  was  my  thought — perhaps  because  the  nation 
itself  has  lost  the  glory  of  its  ancient  days.  The 
Music-Master  is  looking  at  it  too.  It  means  more  to 
him  than  to  most  of  us,  I  imagine.  As  he  looks  over 
to  that  gray  shore  he  is  seeing  in  his  vision  a  land 
where  there  was  once  a  Golden  Age,  when  the  groves 
sang  w4th  Orpheus  and  the  reeds  with  Pan,  while 
nymphs  sported  in  hidden  pools  or  tripped  lightly  in 
the  dappled  shade. 

To-morrow  he  will  go  mad,  I  think,  for  we  shall 
anchor  at  Athens,  in  the  Bay  of  Phaleron. 

117 


XV 

A    PORT   OF   MISSING    DREAMS 

THERE  were  low  voices  on  the  deck,  just  outside 
my  port -hole.  I  realized  that  it  was  morning 
then;  also  that  the  light  was  coming  in  and  that  we 
were  lying  at  anchor.  I  was  up  by  that  time.  It 
was  just  at  the  first  sunrising,  and  the  stretch  of 
water  between  the  ship  and  the  shore  had  turned 
a  pinkish  hue.  Beyond  it  were  some  buildings, 
and  above  the  buildings,  catching  the  first  glint  of 
day  on  its  structured  heights,  rose  a  stately  hill. 

The  Amiable  Girl  (I  have  mentioned  her  before,  I 
believe)  and  a  companion  were  leaning  over  the  ship's 
rail,  trying  to  distinguish  outlines,  blended  in  the 
vague  morning  light.  The  Amiable  Girl  was  peering 
through  a  binocular,  and  I  caught  the  words  "Parthe- 
non" and  "Caryatides";  then  to  her  companion, 
"Take  the  glass." 

Which  the  other  girl  did,  and,  after  gazing  steadily 
for  a  moment,  said: 

**Yes!  Oh  yes,  indeed  —  I  can  see  them  now, 
quite  distinctly!" 

And  then,  even  with  my  naked  eye,  I  could  make 
out  certain  details  of  that  historic  summit  we  have 
travelled  so  far  to  see.  Three  miles  away,  perhaps, 
the  Acropolis  arose  directly  in  front  of  us — its  col- 
umned crown  beginning  to  glow  and  burn  in  answer 


A  Port  of  Missing  Dreams 


to  the  old,  old  friend  that  has  awakened  it  to  glory, 
morning  after  morning,  century  after  century,  for  a 
full  twenty-three  hundred  years. 

The  light  came  fast  now,  and  with  my  glass  I  could 
bring  the  hilltop  near.  I  could  make  out  the  Parthe- 
non— also  the  Temple  of  Victory,  I  thought,  and  those 
marble  women  who  have  seen  races  pass  and  nations 
crumble,  and  religions  fade  back  into  fable  and  the 
realm  of  shades.  It  was  all  aglow,  presently — a  vis- 
ion !  So  many  wonderful  mornings,  we  have  had,  but 
none  like  this.  Nor  can  there  be  so  many  lives  that 
hold  in  them  a  sunrise  on  the  Acropolis  from  the  Bay 
of  Phaleron. 

I  lost  no  time  in  getting  on  deck,  but  it  seemed 
that  everybody  was  there  ahead  of  me.  They  were 
strung  along  the  rail,  and  each  one  had  his  glass, 
or  his  neighbor's,  and  was  pointing  and  discoursing 
and  argufying  and  having  a  beautiful  time.  The 
Diplomat  was  holding  forth  on  the  similarity  of 
modem  and  ancient  Greek,  and  was  threatening  to 
use  the  latter  on  the  first  victim  that  came  within 
range.  The  Patriarch,  who  is  religious  when  he  hap- 
pens to  think  about  it,  was  trying  to  find  Mars  Hill, 
where  St.  Paul  preached;  the  Credulous  One  was 
pointing  out  to  everybody  Lykabettos  Hill  as  Mt. 
Ararat  (information  obtained  from  the  Horse- Doctor) , 
while  the  Apostle  and  the  Colonel  were  quarrelling 
fiercely  over  a  subject  which  neither  of  them  knew 
anything  about — the  rise  of  Christianity  in  Greece. 

I  got  into  a  row  myself,  presently,  with  one  of  the 
boys,  just  because  I  happened  to  make  some  little 
classical  allusion — I  have  forgotten  what  it  was  now, 

119 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


and  I  didn't  seem  to  know  much  about  it  then,  from 
what  he  said.  We  were  all  stirred  up  with  knowl- 
edge, brought  face  to  face  with  history,  as  we  were, 
and  bound  to  unload  it  on  somebody.  Only  the 
Music-Master  wasn't.  A  little  apart  from  any  group, 
he  stood  clutching  the  rail,  his  face  shining  with  a 
light  that  was  not  all  of  the  morning,  gazing  in 
silence  at  his  hill  of  dreams. 

We  went  ashore  in  boats  that  had  pretty  Greek 
rugs  in  them,  and  took  a  little  train  on  which  all 
the  cars  were  smoking-cars  (there  are  no  other  kind 
in  Greece),  and  we  looked  out  the  windows  trying 
to  imagine  we  were  really  in  Greece  where  once  the 
gods  dwelt;  where  Homer  sang  and  Achilles  fought; 
where  the  first  Argonauts  set  sail  for  the  Golden 
Fleece.  I  wish  we  could  have  met  those  voyagers 
before  they  started.  They  wouldn't  have  needed  to 
go  then.  They  could  have  taken  the  Golden  Fleece 
off  of  this  crowd  if  they  had  anything  to  sell  in  that 
Argosy  of  theirs,  and  their  descendants  are  going  to 
do  it  yet.  I  know  from  the  conversation  that  is 
going  on  behind  me.  The  Mill  and  a  lot  of  her  boon 
companions  are  doing  the  talking,  and  it  is  not  of  the 
classic  ruins  we  are  about  to  see,  but  of  the  lace  they 
bought  in  Malta  and  Gibraltar,  and  of  the  embroidery 
they  are  going  to  buy  in  Greece. 

Our  chariots  were  waiting  at  the  station — carriages, 
I  mean,  nice  modem  ones — and  we  were  started  in  a 
minute,  and  suddenly  there  was  the  Theseum,  the 
best  preserved  of  Greek  ruins,  I  believe,  right  in 
front  of  us,  though  we  did  not  stop  for  it  then.  But 
it  was  startling — that  old,  discolored  temple  standing 

I20 


A  Port  of  Missing  Dreams 


there  unenclosed,  unprotected,  unregarded  in  the  busy 
midst  of  modem  surroundings. 

We  went  swinging  away  down  a  fine  street,  staring 
at  Greek  signs  and  new  types  of  faces ;  the  occasional 
native  costume;  the  little  panniered  donkeys  lost  in 
their  loads  of  fruit.  I  was  in  a  carriage  with  Laura 
and  the  Diplomat,  and  the  Diplomat  translated 
Greek  signs,  rejoicing  to  find  that  he  could  make 
out  some  of  the  words;  also  that  he  could  get  a 
rise  out  of  the  driver  when  he  spoke  to  him,  though 
it  wasn't  certain  whether  the  driver,  who  was  a  very 
large  person  in  a  big  blue  coat  (we  christened  him  the 
Blue  Elephant) ,  was  talking  to  him  of  the  horse,  and 
we  were  all  equally  pleased,  whichever  it  was. 

The  Acropolis  was  in  sight  from  points  here  and 
there,  but  we  did  not  visit  it  yet.  Instead,  we  turned 
into  a  fine  boulevard,  anchored  for  a  time  at  the 
comer  of  a  park,  waiting  for  guides,  perhaps,  then 
went  swinging  down  by  the  royal  gardens  and  the 
white  marble  palace  of  the  king. 

It  is  King  George  First  now,  a  worthy  successor 
to  the  rulers  of  that  elder  day  when  Greek  art  and 
poetry  and  national  prosperity  set  a  standard  for 
the  world.  Athens  was  a  pretty  poor  place  when 
King  George  came  to  the  throne  in  1863.  He  was 
only  eighteen  years  old,  then — the  country  was 
bankrupt,  the  throne  had  gone  begging.  In  Inno- 
cents Abroad  Mark  Twain  says : 

**It  was  offered  to  one  of  Victoria's  sons,  and  after- 
wards to  various  other  younger  sons  of  royalty  who 
had  no  thrones  and  were  out  of  business,  but  they  all 
had  the   charity  to  decline  the  dreary   honor,  and 

121 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


veneration  enough  for  Greece's  ancient  greatness  to 
refuse  to  mock  her  sorrowful  rags  and  dirt  with  a 
tinsel  throne  in  this  day  of  her  humiliation — till 
they  came  to  this  young  Danish  George,  and  he  took  it. 
He  has  finished  the  splendid  palace  I  saw  in  the 
radiant  moonlight  the  other  night,  and  is  doing  many 
other  things  for  the  salvation  of  Greece,  they  say." 

This  was  written  in  1867,  four  years  after  King 
George  ascended  the  throne.  For  the  good  of  Greece 
he  has  been  spared  these  forty  years  and  more  to 
continue  the  work  which  in  this  noble  palace  he  began. 
Athens  is  no  longer  a  mendicant  and  a  reproach,  but 
a  splendid  marble  city,  preserving  her  traditions, 
caring  for  her  ruins,  re-establishing  her  classic  tongue. 

The  Diplomat  told  us  some  of  these  things  as  we 
drove  along  and  the  others  we  could  see  for  ourselves. 
Then  suddenly  we  were  brought  face  to  face  with  the 
most  amazing  example  of  Athens  renewed.  We  were 
before  a  splendid  marble  entrance — a  colonnade  of 
white  pentelican  stone,  pure  and  gleaming  in  the  sun. 
We  entered  and  were  in  the  vastest  amphitheatre  I 
ever  saw — the  mightiest  ever  built,  I  should  think — 
all  built  of  the  pure  white  pentelican,  the  marble 
seats  ranging  tier  upon  tier  and  stretching  away  until 
it  looks  as  if  the  audiences  of  the  world  might  be 
seated  there.  It  was  the  Stadium,  the  scene  of  the 
Pan-Hellenic  games,  restored  upon  the  spot  where 
the  ancient  stadium  stood — renewed  in  all  its  splendor 
by  a  rich  Greek  named  George  Averof ,  a  monument 
such  as  no  other  Greek  has  left  behind. 

Yet  it  was  King  George,  I  believe,  who  was  chiefly 
responsible  for  this  noble  work.     The  ancient  stadium 

122 


A  Port  of  Missing  Dreams 


was  laid  out  in  a  natural  hollow  by  Lycurgus,  before 
Christ  over  three  hundred  years,  and  was  rebuilt 
something  less  than  five  hundred  years  later  by  the 
Averof  of  that  day,  Herodes  Atticus,  whose  body 
was  buried  there.  Then  came  the  tumble  and  crumble 
of  European  glory;  the  place  fell  into  ruin,  was  cov- 
ered with  debris,  and  lay  forgotten  or  disregarded  for 
a  thousand  years;  after  which.  King  George  took  up 
the  matter,  and  dug  out  the  remains  as  soon  as  he 
could  get  money  for  the  job. 

That  was  Averof 's  inspiration.  Without  it  he 
would  most  likely  have  spent  his  money  in  Alexandria, 
where  he  made  it.  Certainly  without  King  George 
to  point  the  way  the  progress  of  Athens  would  have 
been  a  sorry  straggle  instead  of  a  stately  march. 

The  stadium  seats  fifty  thousand,  and  has  held  half 
as  many  more  when  crowded.  In  the  revived  Olympic 
games  in  1896  the  Greeks  won  twelve  prizes,  the 
Americans  followed  with  eleven,  France  carried  off 
three,  and  the  English  one.  That  was  a  good  record 
for  the  Americans,  and  we  didn't  fail  to  mention  it, 
though  I  think  most  of  us  were  thinking  of  those  older 
games,  won  and  lost  here  under  this  placid  sky,  and 
of  the  crowds  that  had  sat  here  and  shouted  themselves 
hoarse  as  the  victors  turned  the  goal.  Then,  standing 
high  on  the  marble  seats,  we  looked  across  the  entrance, 
and  there  rose  the  Acropolis,  lifted  high  against  the 
blue,  just  as  those  old  spectators  had  seen  it  so  long 
ago.  Through  half-closed  lashes  we  re-created  it  in 
gleaming  pentelican  and  so  gazed  upon  a  vision,  the 
vision  they  had  seen. 

It  was  hard  to  leave  that  place.     It  would  have 

"3' 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


been  harder,  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  guide  we  had. 
He  insisted  on  talking  in  some  language  which  nobody 
recognized,  and  which  upon  inquiry  I  was  surprised 
to  find  was  English.  He  had  learned  it  overnight,  it 
having  been  discovered  that  the  guide  engaged  for 
our  party  had  been  detained — probably  in  jail — for 
the  same  offence.  Still  our  sample  would  have  done 
better  if  he  had  sat  up  later.  As  it  was  he  knew 
just  two  words.  He  would  swing  his  arms  and  point 
to  something  and  begin,  *'Yoii  see — !"    The  rest  re- 


HE    WOULD    SWING    HIS    ARMS    AND    BEGIN,  "  YOU    SEE !"    THE 

REST    REQUIRED    A    MIND-READER 


quired  a  mind-reader.  The  German  guide  was  bet- 
ter— ^much  better.  I  haven't  a  perfect  ear  for  Ger- 
man, but  I  concluded  to  join  that  party. 

It  was  not  far  to  the  Temple  of  Jupiter — the  group 

124 


A  Port  of  Missing  Dreams 


of  fifteen  Corinthian  columns  which  are  all  that  remain 
of  what  Aristotle  called  "a  work  of  despotic  grandeur." 
It  must  have  been  that.  There  were  originally  one 
hundred  and  four  of  these  columns,  each  nearly 
sixty  feet  high  and  more  than  five  and  a  half  feet 
in  diameter.     Try  to  imagine  that,  if  you  can! 

Think  of  the  largest  elm -tree  you  know;  its  trunk 
will  not  be  as  thick  as  that,  nor  as  high,  but  it  will 
give  you  a  tangible  idea.  Then  try  to  imagine  one 
hundred  and  four  marble  pillars  of  that  size,  the  side 
extending  in  double  row  the  length  of  a  city  block, 
and  the  ends  in  triple  row  a  little  less  than  half  as 
far — pure-white  and  fluted,  crowned  with  capitals  of 
acanthus  leaves,  and  you  will  form  some  vague  idea 
of  what  Aristotle  meant.  We  cramped  our  necks  and 
strained  our  eyes,  gazing  at  the  beautiful  remnant  of 
that  vast  structure,  but  we  did  not  realize  the  full 
magnitude  of  it  until  we  came  near  a  fallen  column 
and  stood  beside  it  and  stepped  its  length.  Even 
then  it  was  hard  to  believe  that  each  of  the  graceful 
group  still  standing  was  of  such  size  as  this. 

Peisistratos  the  tyrant  began  this  temple  and  pick- 
ed the  location,  said  to  be  the  spot  where  the  last 
waters  of  the  Deluge  disappeared.  It  was  to  be 
dedicated  to  Deucalion,  the  founder  of  the  new  race 
of  mortals,  and  the  low  ground  was  filled  up  and  made 
level  and  bulwarked  round  with  a  stone  substructure, 
as  good  to-day  as  when  it  was  finished,  twenty-five 
hundred  years  ago. 

Peisistratos  did  not  get  the  temple  done.  He  died 
when  it  was  only  fairly  under  way,  and  his  sons  did 
not  remain  in  power  long  enough  to  carry  out  his 
9  125 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


plans.  He  was  a  tyrant,  though  a  gentle  one,  am- 
bitious and  fond  of  all  lovely  things.  He  had  his 
faults,  but  they  were  mainly  lovable  ones,  and  he 
fostered  a  cultivation  which  within  a  century  would 
make  Athens  the  architectural  garden  of  the  world. 

The  example  of  Peisistratos  was  followed  lavishly 
during  the  next  hundred  years,  but  his  own  splendid 
temple  was  overlooked.  Perhaps  Pericles  did  not 
like  the  location  and  preferred  to  spend  his  money  on 
the  Acropolis,  where  it  would  make  a  better  showing. 
I  don't  know.  I  know  it  was  left  untouched  for 
nearly  four  hundred  years,  and  then  the  work  was 
carried  on  by  Antiochus  of  Syria,  who  constructed  it 
on  a  grand  scale.  But  it  killed  Antiochus,  too,  and 
then  it  waited  another  three  hundred  years  for  the 
Emperor  Hadrian  to  come  along,  about  174  a.d.,  and 
complete  it,  and  renew  it,  and  dedicate  it  to  Jupiter 
Olympus,  whose  reign  by  that  time  was  nearly  over. 

Never  mind  who  built  it,  now,  or  what  creed  was 
consecrated  there.  The  glory  of  the  Golden  Age  rises 
on  the  hill  above  us,  but  I  think  one  can  meet  nothing 
more  impressive  than  this  in  all  Greece. 

Hadrian's  arch  is  just  beyond  the  Temple  of 
Jupiter,  and  we  drove  through  it  on  our  way  to  the 
Acropolis.  It  is  not  a  very  big  arch,  nor  is  it  very 
impressive.  I  don't  think  Hadrian  built  it  himself 
or  it  wouldn't  have  been  like  that.  It  looks  as  if  it 
had  been  built  by  an  economical  successor. 

However,  it  is  complimentary  enough.  On  the  side 
toward  what  was  then  the  new  part  of  Athens,  called 
Hadrianople,  is  an  inscription  in  Greek  which  says 
*'This  is  the  City  of  Hadrian,  and  not  of  Theseus," 

126 


A  Port  of  Missing  Dreams 


and  on  the  side  toward  the  Acropolis,  ''This  is  the 
old  city  of  Theseus."  And  old  it  was,  for  the  newest 
temples  on  the  Acropolis  had  been  built  six  hundred 
years  even  then. 

It  was  only  a  little  way  to  the  foot  of  the  Acropolis 
and  the  Theatre  of  Dionysus.  We  have  visited  no 
place  where  I  wished  so  much  to  linger.  This  was 
the  theatre  of  Greece  in  her  Golden  Age.  Here 
-^schylus  and  Euripides  had  their  first  nights — or 
days,  perhaps,  for  I  believe  they  were  mostly  matinees 
— and  Sophocles,  too,  and  here  it  was  that  the  naughty 
Aristophanes  burlesqued  them  with  his  biting  parodies. 
Here  it  was  they  competed  for  prizes,  and  tried  to  be 
friends  though  playwrights,  and  abused  the  manager 
when  they  got  into  a  comer  together,  and  abused  the 
actors  openly,  and  vowed  that  some  day  they  would 
build  a  theatre  of  their  own  where  they  could  present 
their  own  plays  in  their  own  way,  and  where  their 
suppressed  manuscripts  could  get  a  hearing. 

Perhaps  history  does  not  record  these  things,  but  it 
does  not  need  to.  I  know  a  good  many  playwrights 
and  managers  and  actors,  and  I  know  that  human 
nature  has  not  changed  in  twenty-four  hundred  years. 
I  know  that  the  old,  old  war  was  going  on  then,  just 
as  it  is  now,  and  will  continue  to  go  on  so  long  as 
there  are  such  things  as  proscenium  and  auditorium, 
box-office,  gallery,  and  reserved  seats. 

I  took  one  of  the  last  named — ^a  beautiful  marble 
chair  in  the  front  row,  just  below  the  plinth  where  once 
the  throne  of  Hadrian  sat — ^a  chair  with  an  inscrip- 
tion which  told  that  in  the  old  days  it  was  reserved 
for  a  priest  or  dignitary — and  I  looked  across  the 

127 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


marble  floor  where  the  chorus  did  its  rhythmic  march, 
and  beyond  to  the  marble  stage-front  with  its  classic 
reliefs  and  the  figure  of  Silenus  whose  bowed  shoulders 
have  so  long  been  the  support  of  dramatic  art.  The 
marble  floor — they  called  it  the  Orchestra  then — is 
no  longer  perfect,  and  grass  and  flowers  push  their  way 
up  between  the  slabs.  The  reliefs  are  headless  and 
scarred,  but  the  slabs  are  still  the  same  the  chorus 
trod,  the  place  is  still  a  theatre,  and  one  has  but  to 
close  his  eyes  a  little  to  fill  it  with  forms  vague  and 
shadowy  indeed,  as  ghosts  are  likely  to  be,  but  realities 
none  the  less.  Our  party  had  moved  along  now  to 
other  things,  and  Laura  and  I  lingered  for  the  play. 

It  was  much  better  than  our  theatres  at  home. 
There  was  no  dazzle  of  lights,  no  close  air  or  smell  of 
gas,  and  there  was  plenty  of  room  for  one  to  put  his 
feet.  However,  the  play  I  did  not  care  for  so  much 
as  the  chorus.  The  acting  was  heavy  and  stilted,  I 
thought,  and  declamatory.  I  was  inclined  to  throw 
a  piece  of  the  theatre  at  the  leading  man. 

But  the  chorus!  Why,  the  very  words  "Greek 
Chorus"  have  something  in  them  that  rouses  and 
thrills,  and  I  know,  now,  the  reason  why.  In  move- 
ment, in  voice,  in  costume  it  was  pure  poetry.  I 
would  have  applied  for  a  position  in  the  chorus  myself, 
but  Laura  suddenly  announced  that  the  show  was 
over  and  that  everybody  but  us  had  gone  long  ago. 

If  I  had  lived  in  that  elder  day  I  should  have  gone 
mainly  to  the  plays  of  Aristophanes.  They  were  gay 
and  full  of  good  things,  and  they  were  rare,  too,  and 
poetic,  even  though  they  were  not  always  more  than 
skin  deep.     That  was  deep  enough  for  some  of  his 

128 


A  Port  of  Missing    'Dreams 


I  WOULD   HAVE   APPLIED   FOR  A   POSITION    IN   THE  CHORUS   MYSELF 


contemporaries.  Deep  enough  for  the  popocrat 
Cleon,  who  tried  to  deprive  Aristophanes  of  his  citizen- 
ship, in  revenge. 

Aristophanes  wrote  a  play  that  acted  like  a  mustard- 
plaster  on  Cleon.  It  made  him  howl  and  caper  and 
sweat  and  bring  libel  suits.  Whereupon  Aristophanes 
wrote  another,  and  when  he  could  get  no  actor  to  take 
the  leading  part — that  of  Cleon — he  took  it  himself, 
and  Cleon  went  to  see  it  and  wore  out  his  teeth  on 
tenpenny  nails  during  the  performance.  Yes,  I 
should  have  had  a  weakness  for  Aristophanes  in  those 
days,  though  I  wish  he  might  have  omitted  that 
tragic  satire  which  twenty  years  later  was  to  send 
Socrates  the  hemlock  cup. 

129 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


We  climbed  the  hill  a  little  way  to  a  grotto  and 
drank  of  the  spring  of  ^sculapius  and  all  our  diseases 
passed  away.  It  only  cost  a  penny  or  two,  and  was 
the  cheapest  doctor  bill  I  ever  paid.  I  never  saw  a 
healthier  lot  than  our  party  when  they  came  out  of 
the  grotto  and  started  for  the  Odeon — the  little 
theatre  which  Herodes  Atticus  built  in  memory  of  his 
wife. 

Two  thousand  years  ago  Cicero  wrote  home  from 
Athens :  '  *  Wherever  we  walk  is  history. ' '  We  realize 
that  here  at  the  base  of  the  Acropolis.  From  the 
Theatre  of  Dionysus  to  the  Spring  of  ^sculapius  is 
only  a  step.  From  the  Spring  to  the  Sanctuary  of 
Isis  is  another  step ;  from  the  Sanctuary  to  the  Odeon 
of  Herodes  is  a  moment's  walk;  the  Pnyx — the  peo- 
ple's forum — is  a  stone's-throw  away,  and  the  Hill  of 
Mars.  All  about,  and  everywhere,  great  events  have 
trod  one  upon  the  other;  mighty  mobs  have  been 
aroused  by  oratory;  mighty  armies  have  rallied  to 
the  assault;  a  hundred  battles  have  drenched  the 
place  with  blood.  And  above  all  this  rises  the  Acrop- 
olis, the  crowning  glory. 

We  postponed  the  Acropolis  until  after  luncheon. 
There  would  have  been  further  riot  and  bloodshed 
on  this  consecrated  ground  had  our  conductor  pro- 
posed to  attempt  it  then.  Our  Argonauts  are  a  fairly 
well-behaved  lot  and  fond  of  antiquities,  even  though 
they  giggle  at  the  guide  now  and  then,  but  they  are 
human,  too,  and  have  the  best  appetites  I  ever  saw. 
They  would  leave  the  Acropolis  for  luncheon,  even 
though  they  knew  an  earthquake  would  destroy  it 
before  they  could  get  back. 

130 


A  Fort  of  Missing  Dreams 


We  did  stop  briefly  at  the  Pnyx  hill — the  gathering- 
place  of  the  Athenians — and  stood  on  the  rostrum  cut 
from  the  living  rock — the  '*Bema"  from  which  De- 
mosthenes harangued  the  populace. 


TOOK    TURNS    ADDRESSING    THE    MULTITUDE 


As  usual  Laura,  age  fourteen,  and  I  got  behind  the 
party.  We  stood  on  the  Bema  and  took  turns  ad- 
dressing the  multitude,  until  we  came  near  being  left 
altogether  by  the  Diplomat  and  the  Blue  Elephant, 
who  finally  whirled  us  away  in  a  wild  gallop  to  the 
hotel,  which,  thanks  to  Jupiter  and  all  the  Olympian 
synod,  we  reached  in  time. 

We  made  a  new  guide  arrangement  in  the  afternoon. 
It  was  discovered  that  the  guide  for  the  German 
party  could  handle  English,  too,  so  we  doubled  up 
and  he  talked  to  us  first  in  one  language,  then  in  the 
other,  and  those  of  us  who  knew  a  little  of  both  caught 

131 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


it  going  and  coming.  Perhaps  his  English  was  not 
the  best,  but  I  confess  I  adored  it.  He  Hsped  a  little, 
and  his  voice — droning,  plaintive,  and  pathetic — was 
full  of  the  sorrow  that  goes  with  a  waning  glory  and 
a  vanished  day.  We  named  him  Lykabettos  because 
somehow  he  looked  like  that,  and  then,  too,  he  towered 
above  us  as  he  talked. 

So  long  as  I  draw  breath  that  afternoon  on  the 
Acropolis  will  live  before  me  as  a  sunlit  dream.  I 
shall  see  it  always  in  the  tranquil  light  of  an  after- 
noon in  spring  when  the  distant  hills  are  turning 
green  and  forming  pictures  everywhere  between 
mellowed  columns  and  down  ruined  aisles.  Always 
I  shall  wander  there  with  Laura,  and  resting  on  the 
steps  of  the  Parthenon  I  shall  hear  the  sad  and  gentle 
voice  of  Lykabettos  recounting  the  tale  of  its  glory 
and  decline.     I  shall  hear  him  say: 

''Zen  Pericles  he  gazzer  all  ze  moany  zat  was 
collect  for  ze  army  and  he  bring  it  here.  But  Pericles 
he  use  it  to  make  all  zese  beautiful  temple,  and  by  and 
by  when  ze  war  come  zere  was  no  moany  for  ze  army , 
so  zay  could  not  win." 

Lykabettos'  eyes  wander  mournfully  in  the  direc- 
tion of  Sparta,  whence  the  desolation  had  come.  Then 
a  little  later,  pointing  up  to  a  rare  section  of  frieze — 
the  rest  missing — ! 

*'Zat  did  not  fall  down,  but  stay  zere,  always  ze 
same — ze  honly  piece  zat  Lord  Elgin  could  not  take 
away,"  and  so  on  and  on,  through  that  long  sweet 
afternoon. 

I  shall  not  attempt  the  story  of  the  Acropolis  here. 
The   tale   of   that   old   citadel   which   later   became 

132 


A  Port  of  MissiJig  Dreams 


literally  the  pinnacle  of  Greek  architecture  already 
fills  volumes.  I  do  not  think  Lykabettos  was  alto- 
gether just  to  Pericles,  however,  or  to  Lord  Elgin, 
for  that  matter.  True,  Pericles  did  complete  the  Par- 
thenon and  otherwise  beautify  the  Acropolis,  and  in 
a  general  way  he  was  for  architecture  rather  than  war. 

But  I  do  not  find  that  he  ever  exhausted  the  public 
treasury  on  those  temples,  and  I  do  find  where  his 
war  policy  was  disregarded  when  disregard  meant 
defeat.  Still,  if  there  had  been  more  money  and 
fewer  temples  on  the  Acropolis,  the  result  of  any 
policy  might  have  been  different,  and  there  is  some- 
thing pathetically  gratifying  in  the  thought  that  in 
the  end  Athens  laid  down  military  supremacy  as  the 
price  of  her  marble  crown. 

As  for  Lord  Elgin,  it  may  be,  as  is  said,  that  he  did 
carry  off  a  carload  or  so  of  the  beautiful  things  when  he 
had  obtained  from  the  Government  (it  was  Turkish 
then)  permission  to  remove  a  few  pieces.  But  it 
may  be  added  that  the  things  he  removed  were  wholly 
uncared  for  at  that  time  and  were  being  mutilated 
and  appropriated  by  vandals  who,  but  for  Elgin, 
might  have  robbed  the  world  of  them  altogether. 
As  it  is,  they  are  safe  in  the  British  Museum,  though 
I  think  they  should  be  restored  to  Greece  in  this  her 
day  of  reincarnation. 

We  stood  before  the  Temple  of  Victory  and  gazed 
out  on  the  Bay  of  Salamis,  where  victory  was  won. 
We  entered  the  Erechtheum,  built  on  the  sacred  spot 
where  Athena  victoriously  battled  with  Poseidon  for 
the  possession  of  Athens,  and  we  stood  in  reverential 
awe  before  the  marble  women  that  have  upheld  her 


The  Ship -'Dwellers 


portico  so  long.  We  crossed  the  relic-strewn  space 
and  visited  the  Acropolis  museum,  but  it  was  chilly 
and  lifeless,  and  I  did  not  care  for  the  classified, 
fragmentary  things.  Then  we  entered  the  little  en- 
closure known  as  Belvedere  and  gazed  down  on  the 
Athens  of  to-day. 

If  anybody  doubts  that  modem  Athens  is  beautiful, 
let  him  go  to  that  spot  and  look  down  through  the 
evening  light  and  behold  a  marble  vision  such  as  the 
world  nowhere  else  presents.  Whatever  ancient 
Athens  may  have  been,  it  would  hardly  surpass  this 
in  beauty,  and  if  Pericles  could  stand  here  to-day  and 
gaze  down  upon  the  new  city  which  has  arisen  to 
preserve  his  treasures,  I  think  he  would  be  satisfied. 

When  the  others  had  gone  to  visit  the  Hill  of  Mars, 
Laura  and  I  wandered  back  to  the  Parthenon,  fol- 
lowed its  silent  corridors,  and  saw  it  all  again  to  our 
hearts'  content.  And  when  our  eyes  were  tired,  we 
rested  them  by  looking  out  between  the  columns  to 
the  hills,  Hymettus  and  Pentelicus,  glorified  in  the 
evening  light,  wearing  always  their  ''violet  crown." 

They  are  unchanged.  Races  may  come  and  go, 
temples  may  rise  and  totter  and  crumble  into  dust. 
The  old,  old  days  that  we  so  prize  and  honor — they 
are  only  yesterdays  to  the  hills.  The  last  fragment 
of  these  temples  will  be  gone  by  and  by— the  last 
memory  of  their  glory — but  the  hills  will  be  still 
young  and  wearing  their  violet  crown,  still  turning 
green  in  the  breath  of  a  Grecian  spring. 

Down  through  that  splendid  entrance,  the  Propy- 
laea,  at  last,  for  it  was  growing  late.  We  had  intended 
climbing  the  Hill  of  Mars,  where  St.  Paul  preached, 

134 


A   Port  of  Missing    'Dreams 


but  we  could  see  it  plainly  in  the  sunset  light  and 
there  was  no  need  to  labor  up  the  stairs.  I  think  it 
was  about  this  time  of  the  day  when  St.  Paul  preached 
there.  He  had  been  wandering  about  Athens, 
among  the  temples,  on  a  sort  of  tour  of  observation, 
making  a  remark  occasionally — of  criticism,  perhaps — 
disputing  with  the  Jews  in  the  synagogue,  and  now 
and  again  in  the  market-place.  The  story,  told  in 
the  seventeenth  chapter  of  Acts,  begins: 

''Then  certain  philosophers  of  the  Epicureans  and 
of  the  Stoicks  encountered  him.  And  some  said, 
'What  will  this  babbler  say  ? '  Other  some,  'He  seem- 
eth  to  be  a  setter  forth  of  strange  gods,'  because  he 
preached  unto  them  Jesus  and  the  resurrection." 

They  brought  St.  Paul  here  to  the  Areopagus,  that 
is,  to  Mars  Hill,  where  in  ancient  days  an  open-air 
court  was  held,  a  court  of  supreme  jurisdiction  in 
cases  of  life  and  death.  But  it  would  seem  that 
the  court  had  degenerated  in  St.  Paul's  time  to  a 
place  of  gossip  and  wrangle.  "For  all  the  Athenians 
and  strangers  which  were  there  spent  their  time  in 
nothing  else,  but  either  to  tell  or  hear  some  new 
thing." 

Paul  rose  up  before  the  assembly  and  made  his 
famous  utterance  beginning,  "Ye  men  of  Athens,  I 
perceive  that  in  all  things  ye  are  too  superstitious." 
It  was  a  fearless,  wonderful  sermon  he  delivered,  and 
I  like  to  think  that  it  was  just  at  the  hour  when  we 
saw  the  hill ;  just  at  the  evening-time,  with  the  sun- 
set glory  on  his  face.  Paul  closed  his  remarks  with  a 
reference  to  the  resurrection,  a  doctrine  new  to  them : 

135 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


*'And  when  they  heard  of  the  resurrection  of  the 
dead,  some  mocked:  and  others  said,  'We  will  hear 
thee  again  of  the  matter.' " 

Which  they  did,  for  that  was  nineteen  hundred 
years  ago,  and  the  churches  of  Greece  to-day  still 
ring  with  St.  Paul's  doctrine.  We  climbed  into  our 
waiting  carriages,  and  turning  saw  the  Acropolis  in 
the  sunset,  as  we  had  seen  it  in  the  sunrise  that  now 
seemed  ages  ago — which  indeed  it  was,  for  we  had  been 
travelling  backward  and  forward  since  then  through 
the  long  millennial  years. 

I  wanted  to  see  Athens  by  night,  and  after  dinner 
I  slipped  away  and  bribed  a  couple  of  boatmen  who 
were  hovering  about  the  ship  to  take  me  ashore. 
It  was  not  so  far,  but  the  wind  and  tide  had  kicked 
up  a  heavy  sea  and  I  confess  I  was  sorry  I  started. 
Every  time  we  slid  down  one  wave  I  was  certain  we 
were  going  straight  through  the  next,  and  I  think  the 
boatmen  had  some  such  idea,  for  they  prayed  steadily 
and  crossed  themselves  whenever  safety  permitted. 

We  arrived,  however,  and  I  took  the  little  train 
for  the  Theseus  station.  I  wanted  to  get  a  near  view 
of  the  temple  and  I  thought  night  would  be  a  good 
time.  I  would  have  walked  there  but  I  did  not  quite 
know  the  way.  So  I  got  into  a  carriage  and  said 
''Theseum,"  and  the  driver  took  me  to  a  beer-saloon. 
It  was  a  cheerful  enough  temple,  but  it  was  not 
classic.  When  I  had  seen  it  sufficiently,  I  got  into 
the  carriage  and  said  ''Theseum"  again,  and  he  took 
me  to  a  theatre.     The  theatre  was  not  classic,  either, 

136 


A   Port   of  Missing  Dreams 


being  of  about  the  average  Bowery  type.  So  I  got 
into  the  carriage  and  said  "Theseum"  again,  and  he 
took  me  to  a  graveyard.  It  didn't  seem  a  good  time 
to  visit  graveyards.  I  only  looked  through  the  gate 
a  little  and  got  back  into  the  carriage  and  said  the 
magic  word  once  more  and  was  hauled  off  to  a  blazing 
hotel. 

That  wouldn't  do  either.  These  might  be,  and 
doubtless  were,  all  Theseums,  but  they  were  that  in 
name  only.  What  I  wanted  was  the  sure-enough, 
only  original  Theseum,  set  down  in  the  guide-book 
as  the  best -preserved  temple  of  the  ancient  Greek 
world.  I  explained  this  to  a  man  in  the  hotel  who 
explained  it  to  my  driver  and  we  were  off,  down  a 
beautiful  marble  business  street,  all  closed  and 
shuttered,  for  Athens  being  a  capital  is  a  quiet  place 
after  nightfall — as  quiet  as  Washington,  almost. 

We  were  in  front  of  the  old  temple  soon.  It  was 
fairly  dark  there  and  nobody  about.  There  was  a  dog 
barking  somewhere,  but  I  did  not  mind  that.  Dogs 
are  not  especially  modem,  and  this  one  might  be  the 
three-headed  Cerberus  for  all  I  knew  or  cared.  What 
I  wanted  was  to  see  the  old  temple  when  other  people 
had  gone  to  bed  and  the  shadows  had  shut  away  the 
less-fortunate  near-by  architecture.  They  had  done 
that  now ;  the  old  temple  might  be  amidst  its  earliest 
surroundings  so  far  as  I  could  see. 

I  walked  up  and  down  among  its  graceful  Doric 
columns  and  stepped  its  measurements,  and  found  it 
over  a  hundred  feet  long  and  nearly  fifty  wide ;  then 
I  sat  down  on  the  step  and  listened  to  Cerberus  bark — 
he  had  all  three  heads  going  at  once  now — ^and  tried 

137 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


to  imagine  the  life  that  had  gathered  there  when  this 
old  fane  was  new.  It  is  one  of  the  temples  of  that 
brief  golden  period  when  all  Athens  burst  into  archi- 
tectural flower.  It  was  dedicated  to  Theseus  and  Her- 
cules, and  perhaps  to  a  few  other  heroes  and  demi- 
gods and  goddesses  that  they  happened  to  think  of 
when  they  laid  the  comer-stone. 

One  story  has  it  that  it  was  built  on  the  spot  where 
the  Marathon  runner  fell  dead,  after  telling  in  a  word 
his  news  of  victory.  I  like  to  believe  that  this  is 
true.  I  like  to  reassemble  the  crowds  here — the 
anxious  faces  waiting  for  the  earliest  returns  from 
that  momentous  struggle  which  would  decide  the 
fate  of  Greece.  I  like  to  picture  that  panting,  white- 
faced  runner  as  he  dashes  in  among  them  and  utters 
his  single  glad  cry  as  his  soul  goes  out,  and  I  like  to 
believe  that  this  temple,  dedicated  to  other  heroes, 
was  established  here  in  his  memory. 

But  for  Marathon  there  would  have  been  no  Golden 
Age — ^no  Pericles,  no  Parthenon,  no  splendid  con- 
stellation of  names  that  need  not  be  repeated  here. 
The  victory  of  Marathon  was  the  first  great  check 
to  a  Persian  invasion  that  would  have  Orientalized 
not  only  Greece,  but  all  Europe.  So  it  is  proper  that 
a  temple  should  be  built  on  the  spot  where  that  great 
news  was  told,  and  proper,  too,  that  of  all  the  temples 
of  that  halcyon  time  this  should  remain  the  most 
perfect  through  the  years. 


XVI 

ATHENS   THAT   IS 

ON  the  road  that  leads  from  the  old  market- 
place, up  past  the  Theseum  to  the  Acropolis, 
there  is  a  record  of  a  humble  but  interesting  sort.  On 
the  lower  comer  block  of  an  old  stone  house,  facing 
the  highway,  are  three  inscriptions.  Two  of  them 
have  been  partly  erased,  but  the  third  is  quite  legible, 
and  one  who  knows  Greek  can  read  plainly  a  de- 
scription of  the  property  in  metes  and  bounds  and 
the  original  Greek  word  for  ** hypothecated,"  followed 
by  "looo  drachmas." 

It  is  a  ''live"  mortgage,  that  is  what  it  is,  and  it 
has  been  clinging  to  that  property  and  piling  up  inter- 
est for  more  than  two  thousand  years.  The  two  half- 
obliterated  inscriptions  above  it  were  once  mortgages, 
too,  but  they  were  paid  some  time,  and  cancelled  by 
erasure.  The  third  one  has  never  been  satisfied,  and 
would  hold,  like  enough,  in  a  court  of  law. 

The  owner  of  the  property  wrestled  with  that 
mortgage,  I  suppose,  and  struggled  along,  and  died 
at  last  without  paying  it.  Or  perhaps  the  great  war 
came,  with  upheaval  and  dissolution  of  things  in 
general.  An3rway,  it  was  never  paid,  but  has  stayed 
there  century  after  century,  corapounding  interest, 
until  to-day  the  increment  of  that  original  thousand 
drachmas  would  redeem  Greece. 

139 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


I  was  half  a  mind  to  look  up  the  heirs  of  that  old 
money-lender  and  buy  their  claim  and  begin  their 
suit.  Think  of  being  involved  in  a  tangle  that  has 
been  stringing  along  through  twenty-three  centuries, 
and  would  tie  up  yesterday,  to-day,  and  forever  in  a 
hard  knot!  I  would  have  done  it,  I  think,  only  that 
it  might  take  another  twenty-three  centuries  to  settle 
it,  and  I  was  afraid  the  ship  wouldn't  wait. 

If  there  is  any  one  who  still  does  not  believe  that 
modem  Athens  is  beautiful  and  a  credit  to  her  ancient 
name,  let  him  visit  as  we  did  her  modern  temples. 
We  had  passed  the  ancient  market  entrance,  the  Tower 
of  the  Winds,  and  other  of  the  old  landmarks,  when 
suddenly  we  turned  into  a  wonderful  boulevard,  and 
drove  by  or  visited,  one  after  another,  the  New 
Academy,  the  University,  the  National  Library,  the 
Gallery  of  Fine  Arts,  and  the  National  Museum.  If 
Pericles  were  alive  to-day  he  would  approve  of  those 
buildings  and  add  them  to  his  collection. 

All  the  old  classic  grace  and  beauty  have  been 
preserved  in  the  same  pure-white  pentelican  marble, 
of  which  it  is  estimated  that  there  is  enough  to  last 
any  city  five  thousand  years.  Corinthian,  Ionic, 
and  Doric  columns  that  might  have  come  from  the 
Acropolis  itself — and  did,  in  design — adorn  and  sup- 
port these  new  edifices  as  they  did  the  old,  and  lend 
their  ineffable  glory  to  the  rehabilitation  of  Greece. 

We  have  learned,  by-the-way,  to  distinguish  the 
kinds  of  columns.  They  were  all  just  Greek  to  us  at 
first,  but  we  know  them  now.  When  we  see  a  column 
with  acanthus  leaves  on  the  capital  we  know  it  is 
Corinthian,  because  we  remember  the  story  of  the 

140 


Athens  that  Is 


girl  of  Corinth  who  planted  acanthus  on  her  lover's 
grave  and  put  a  hollow  tile  around  it  for  protection. 
Some  of  the  leaves  came  up  outside  of  the  tile  by  and 
by,  and  a  young  architect  came  along  and  got  his 
idea  for  the  Corinthian  capital. 

We  know  the  Ionic,  too,  because  it  looks  like  its 
initial — a  capital  '*!'/  with  a  little  curly  top — and 
we  say  **I"  is  for  Ionic;  and  we  can  tell  the  Doric, 
because  it's  the  only  one  that  doesn't  suggest  any- 
thing particular  to  remember  it  by.  It's  worth  com- 
ing to  Greece  to  learn  these  things.  We  should  never 
have  learned  them  at  home — ^never  in  the  world.  We 
should  not  have  had  any  reason  for  wanting  to  learn 
them. 

We  got  tired  of  the  Museum — Laura,  age  fourteen, 
and  I — we  were  too  young  and  frivolous  for  such 
things,  though  they  are  wonderful  enough,  I  am  sure. 
But  then  museums  we  have  always  with  us,  while  a 
day  in  Athens  is  a  fleeting  thing.  We  wanted  to  take 
one  of  our  private  side-excursions,  and  we  tried  to 
communicate  this  fact  to  the  Blue  Elephant,  who  was 
our  driver  to-day,  as  yesterday. 

It  was  no  light  matter.  He  nodded  and  smiled 
when  we  indicated  that  we  wanted  to  leave  the  pro- 
cession and  go  it  on  our  own  hook,  but  he  did  not 
move.  We  had  already  made  up  our  minds  that  he 
was  subject  to  fits,  or  was  just  plain  crazy,  for  more 
than  once  he  had  suddenly  broke  away  from  the 
party  and  whirled  us  around  side-streets  for  a  dozen 
blocks  or  so  to  something  not  down  on  the  programme, 
rejoining  the  procession  in  some  unexpected  place. 

But  whatever  may  have  induced  his  impulses  then, 
10  141 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


nothing  seemed  to  stir  his  ambition  for  adventure 
now.  I  gesticulated  and  produced  money;  I  sum- 
moned the  Diplomat  to  tackle  him  in  his  best  Xeno- 
phan,  but  it  was  no  use.  I  got  the  guide  at  last,  and 
then  there  was  an  exciting  harangue  that  looked  as  if 
it  might  end  in  blood.  I  suppose  our  man  thought  he 
wouldn't  get  his  full  pay  if  he  deserted  the  ship  crowd. 
He  must  have  been  convinced,  finally,  for  he  leaped 
upon  the  box,  and  away  we  went  in  a  wild  race  for 
the  shops  and  by-streets  where  we  had  begged  the 
guide  to  let  us  go. 

We  had  explained  that  we  wanted  some  bags — 
some  little  embroidered  bags,  such  as  we  had  seen 
earlier  in  the  day  when  we  could  not  stop.  The  Blue 
Elephant  understood  now  and  took  us  to  where  there 
were  bags — many  bags.  The  whole  street  was  lined 
with  bags  and  other  embroideries,  and  the  Greeks 
turned  out  to  give  us  a  welcome. 

It  is  said  that  one  Greek  is  equal  to  three  Turks, 
and  I  believe  it.  The  poorest  Greek  we  saw  was  too 
much  for  two  Americans,  and  we  were  beset  and 
besieged  and  literally  borne  down  and  swamped  by 
a  rising  tide  of  bags.  We  bought  at  many  prices  and 
in  many  places;  we  piled  the  carriage  full  and  fled 
away  at  last  when  they  were  going  to  dump  upon  us 
a  collection  of  costumes  and  firearms  and  draperies 
that  would  have  required  a  flat-car. 

We  were  breathing  easier  when  the  Blue  Elephant 
pulled  us  into  another  narrow  street,  and  behold!  it 
was  another  street  of  bags.  Dear  me !  how  could  we 
explain  that  we  had  enough  bags  and  wanted  to  see 
other  things  ?  I  would  almost  have  given  four  hundred 

142 


Athens  that  Is 


dollars  to  have  been  able  to  tell  him  that  I  wanted 
to  visit  the  old  Byzantine  structure  we  had  passed  that 
morning — the  one  with  all  the  little  shoemakers  down- 
stairs— but  the  thing  was  impossible.  I  must  buy 
some  more  bags,  there  was  no  help  for  it.  So  I  did 
buy  some  more,  and  I  picked  out  a  place  where  a  man 
spoke  enough  English  to  give  the  Blue  Elephant  a 
fresh  start,  which  brought  us  at  last  to  the  old  Byzan- 
tine building  and  the  little  shoemakers. 

Then  we  saw  the  street  of  a  hundred  clanking  sounds 
— anyway  we  called  it  that,  for  they  made  all  kinds  of 
copper  vessels  in  there — and  we  got  out  and  told  the 
Blue  Elephant  to  wait,  for  the  place  was  very  narrow; 
but  we  couldn't  lose  him,  seeing  he  was  always  on 
our  heels,  ready  to  whirl  us  away  somewhere,  any- 
where, in  his  crazy,  fitty  fashion.  We  had  to  let  him 
do  it,  now,  for  we  had  used  up  all  the  interpreters  we 
could  find;  besides,  we  didn't  care,  any  more. 

Still,  when  it  got  to  be  near  luncheon-time  we  did 
begin  to  wonder  where  the  party  had  gone.  It  did 
not  matter  greatly,  we  could  lunch  anywhere,  but  we 
were  curious  to  know  whether  we  should  ever  see 
them  or  the  ship  again,  and  when  we  mentioned  the 
matter  to  the  Blue  Elephant  he  merely  grinned  and 
whipped  up  his  horses  and  capered  across  another 
square.  But  presently  I  realized  that  some  sort  of 
procession  was  passing  and  that  he  had  turned  into  it. 
Then  it  was  all  just  like  dreams  I've  had,  for  it 
was  our  own  procession,  and  we  were  calmly  going 
along  in  it,  and  right  away  were  being  personally  con- 
ducted through  a  remarkable  church  where  the  king 
and  queen  go,  and  sit  in  golden  chairs.     Alice  in 

143 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


Wonderland  could  hardly  have  had  a  more  surprising 
adventure. 

Our  party  being  free  after  luncheon,  Laura  and 
I  engaged  Lykabettos  on  our  own  accotmt  and  drove 
out  to  the  Bay  of  Salamis,  where  Xerxes  made  his 
great  mistake  in  the  matter  of  fleets. 

Perhaps  Lykabettos  had  taken  a  fancy  to  us,  for 
he  engaged  a  carriage  that  had  been  awarded  a  prize 
last  year  in  the  games,  he  said,  and  the  team  with  it. 
We  believed  Lykabettos — anybody  would — and  any- 
way it  was  a  beautiful  outfit,  and  we  cantered  away 
over  a  fine  road,  past  wayside  shrines,  past  little  huts 
and  houses,  past  a  little  memorial  that  marks  the 
place  on  a  hill  where  Xerxes  placed  his  silver-footed 
throne  so  that  he  might  sit  comfortably  and  watch 
the  enemy's  ships  go  down.  Only,  the  programme 
didn't  work  out  that  way,  Lykabettos  said: 

**Zen  Xerxes  he  pretty  soon  see  zat  it  was  not  ze 
Greek  ship  zat  sink,  and  he  mus'  run  pretty  quick  or 
he  will  be  capture ;  and  hees  ship  zay  try  to  escape,  and 
he  not  take  away  hees  army  from  zat  little  island  you 
see  over  zere ;  zay  stay  zere  and  are  all  massacre  by 
ze  Greek — by  ze  men  and  ze  women,  too,  who  have 
watch  ze  battle  from  here  and  go  over  and  kill  zem." 

The  little  island  Lykabettos  pointed  out  was 
Psyttalleia,  and  the  flower  of  Persia  perished  there. 
It  was  a  tiny  bit  of  barren  land  then,  and  it  is  to-day. 
The  hills  around  Salamis  are  barren,  too,  covered 
only  with  a  gray  weed  like  the  sage-brush  of  Nevada, 
and  stunted  groves  of  scrubby  pine  and  ground  cedar 
— referred  to  by  Lykabettos  as  "ze  forest." 

144 


Athens  that  Is 


We  came  to  the  tiny  hamlet  on  the  water's  side,  a 
collection  of  two  or  three  huts,  and  Lykabettos  en- 
gaged a  lateen-sailed  lugger  (I  should  call  it  that, 
though  its  name  was  probably  something  else),  and 
with  a  fresh  wind  half-ahead  we  billowed  over  the 
blue  waters  of  Salamis,  where  twenty-five  hundred 
years  ago  the  Persian  ships  went  down.  It  was  a 
cloudy  afternoon  and  there  was  a  stormy  feeling  in 
the  sky.  It  seemed  just  the  time  to  be  there,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  dispel  the  illusion  of  imminent 
battle  that  was  in  the  air. 

I  was  perfectly  sure,  and  so  was  Laura,  that  the 
Persian  fleet  was  likely  at  any  moment  to  round  the 
point  and  land  troops  on  Pysttalleia;  also  that  the 
Greek  fleet  was  hiding  somewhere  in  the  Bay  of 
Eleusis,  and  that  there  were  going  to  be  very  disagree- 
able happenings  there  in  a  few  minutes.  There  was  a 
hut  where  we  landed  on  the  Island  of  Salamis  and  a 
girl  making  lace  at  the  front  door.  She  might  have 
been  there  twenty-five  hundred  years  ago,  as  well  as 
not — perhaps  was — ^and  saw  the  great  victory. 

We  sailed  back  then,  crossing  again  the  exact  spot 
where  the  battle  raged,  and  drove  home  through  the 
gathering  evening,  while  Lykabettos  recounted  in  that 
sad  voice  of  his  the  history  of  ancient  days.  We  are 
on  the  ship  now,  with  anchor  weighed,  looking  to 
the  Farther  East.  Athens  with  its  temples  and  its 
traditions  drops  below  the  horizon.  Darkness  and 
silence  once  more  claim  the  birthplace  of  gods  and 
heroes  as  we  slip  out  of  these  quiet  waters  and  head 
for  the  ^gean  Sea. 


XVII 

INTO    THE    DARDANELLES 

WE  saw  but  little  of  the  Isles  of  Greece.  It 
was  night  and  we  were  tired  after  a  hard  day ; 
most  of  us,  I  think,  turned  in  early.  Now  and  then 
a  light — a  far  tiny  speck — appeared  in  one  quarter 
or  another — probably  a  signal  beacon;  that  was  all. 
But  in  the  morning — it  was  soon  after  breakfast — 
a  gray  bank  rose  up  out  of  the  sea,  and  the  word 
went  round  that  it  was  Asia.  That  was  a  strange 
thing  for  a  boy  who  had  been  brought  up  on  the 
prairies  of  the  Middle  West  —  to  look  across  the 
bow  and  see  Asia  coming  up  out  of  the  sea.  It 
brought  back  a  small,  one-room,  white  district  school- 
house,  dropped  down  on  the  bleak,  level  prairie,  and 
geography-class  of  three,  standing  in  a  row  and  singing 
to  the  tune  of  Old  Dan  Tucker  the  rhymes  of  the 
continents : 

*'  Asia  sixteen  millions, 
The  largest  of  the  five  grand  divisions." 

It  was  not  much  of  a  rhyme,  nor  much  of  a  tune, 
but  there  was  a  swing  in  the  way  we  did  it  which  fixed 
those  facts  for  life.  They  came  back  now,  and  I  had 
to  get  hold  of  myself  a  little  to  realize  that  this  was 
the  same  Asia  with  all  those  square  miles — the  land 

146 


Into  the  Dardanelles 


of  the  Arabian  Nights,  of  the  apostles  and  the  patri- 
archs— the  wonderful  country  I  had  one  day  hoped  to 
see.  And  presently  we  were  off  the  Plains  of  Troy,  pass- 
ing near  where  the  ships  of  the  Greeks  lay  anchored, 
all  of  which  seemed  very  wonderful,  too,  I  thought. 
We  were  in  the  Dardanelles,  then,  following  the  path 
of  those  first  Argonauts  who  set  sail  with  Jason,  and 
of  that  later  band  who  set  out  in  the  Quaker  City, 
forty-two  years  ago.  No  lack  of  history  and  tradition 
and  old  association  here. 

But  how  one's  information  does  go  to  seed;  all  of 
us  knew  something,  but  none  of  us  knew  much.  Not 
one  of  us  knew  positively  whether  the  Hellespont 
was  the  same  as  the  Dardanelles  or  as  the  Bosporus, 
and  when,  with  the  help  of  the  guide-book,  we  decided 
that  it  was  the  former,  we  fell  into  other  luminous 
debates  as  to  where  Leander  swam  it  when  he  was 
courting  Hero  and  where  Xerxes  built  his  bridge. 
The  captain  said  that  both  these  things  took  place  at 
Abydos,  which  he  pointed  out  to  us,  and  then  we  were 
in  trouble  right  away  again  as  to  whether  this  was 
the  Abydos  of  Lord  Byron's  poem,  or  merely  another 
town  by  the  same  name.  At  all  events  it  was  not 
much  of  a  place. 

On  the  whole,  the  shores  of  the  Dardanelles  are 
mostly  barren  and  uninteresting,  with  small  towns 
here  and  there  and  fortifications.  At  one  place  some 
men  came  out  in  a  boat  and  went  through  the  for- 
mality of  letting  us  enter  the  country.  It  did  not 
seem  much  of  a  permission ;  I  could  have  given  it  my- 
self. But  I  suppose  we  had  to  have  theirs ;  otherwise 
they  might  have  reached  us  with  some  kind  of  a  gun, 

147 


The  Ship -'Dwellers 


We  entered  the  Sea  of  Marmora,  passed  a  barren 
island  or  two;  then  the  shores  fell  back  beyond  the 
horizon,  and  most  of  us  put  in  the  rest  of  the  day 
pretending  to  read  up  on  Constantinople.  It  was 
dark  when  we  dropped  anchor  in  the  mouth  of  the 
Bosporus,  and  we  were  at  dinner  —  a  gala  dinner. 


ONE  S  AGE,  STATED  ON  OATH,  GOES  WITH  A  PASSPORT 


after  which  we  danced.  A  third  of  the  way  around 
the  world  to  the  westward,  in  a  country  called  America, 
a  new  President  would  be  inaugurated  to-morrow,  and 
in  the  quiet  dusk  of  our  anchorage,  with  the  scattered 
lights  of  Asia  blinking  across  from  one  side  and  a 
shadowy,  mysterious  grove  and  a  fairy-lighted  city 
on  the  other,  we  celebrated  that  great  occasion  in  the 

148 


Into  the  Dardanelles 


West  and  our  arrival  at  the  foremost  mart  of  the 
East  by  dancing  before  Stamboul. 

That  should  have  ended  our  day,  but  when  we  were 
about  to  break  up,  a  boat-load  or  two  of  uniformed 
officials  with  distinctly  Oriental  faces  and  fezzes 
came  aboard  and  opened  business  in  the  after  cabin, 
going  through  our  passports.  Then  for  an  hour  or 
so  there  was  most  extraordinary  medley  of  confused 
tongues.  We  had  all  our  own  kinds  going  at  once  and 
several  varieties  of  Constantinoplese  besides.  And 
what  an  amazing  performance  it  was,  altogether — • 
something  not  to  be  equalled  anywhere  else  on  the 
earth,  I  imagine,  unless  in  Russia — a  sufficient  com- 
mentary on  the  progress  and  enlightenment  of  these 
two  laggard  nations. 

Curious  how  some  of  our  ladies  hesitate  about 
showing  their  passports.  One*s  age,  stated  on  oath, 
goes  with  a  passport. 


KEYEFF 


XVIII 


A   CITY    OF    ILLUSION 


I  SUPPOSE  there  is  no  more  beautiful  city  from 
the  outside  and  no  more  disheartening  city  from 
the  inside  than  Constantinople.  From  the  outside 
it  is  all  fairyland  and  enchantment;  from  the  inside 
it  is  all  grime  and  wretchedness.  Viewed  from  the 
entrance  of  the  Bosporus,  through  the  haze  of  morn- 
ing, it  is  a  vision.  Viewed  from  a  carriage  driven 
through  the  streets  it  becomes  a  nightmare.  If  one 
only  might  see  it  as  we  did — at  sunrise,  with  the 
minarets  and  domes  lifting  from  the  foliage,  all  aglow 
with  the  magic  of  morning — and  then  sail  away  from 
that  dream  spectacle,  his  hunger  unsatisfied,  he  would 
hold  at  least  one  supreme  illusion  in  his  heart. 

For  that  is  what  it  is — ^just  an  illusion — the  most 
superb  fantasy  in  the  whole  world.     We  left  anchorage 

ISO 


A  City  of  Illusion 


soon  after  sunrise  and  moved  over  abreast  of  Galata 
a  little  below  the  bridge  that  crosses  the  Golden  Horn 
and  connects  this  part  of  Constantinople  with  Stam- 
boul.  We  are  lying  now  full  length  against  the  street, 
abreast  of  it,  where  all  day  long  a  soiled,  disordered 
life  goes  on.  It  is  a  perpetual  show,  but  hardly  a 
pleasing  one.  It  is  besmirched  and  raucous;  it  is 
wretched. 

Hawkers,  guides,  beggars,  porters  weave  in  and 
out  and  mingle  vociferously.  To  leave  the  ship  is 
to  be  assailed  on  every  side.  Across  the  street  is  a 
row  of  coffee-houses  where  unholy  music  and  singing 
keep  up  most  of  the  time.  Also,  there  are  dogs, 
scores  of  them — a  wolfish  breed — ^and  they  are  seldom 
silent.  This  is  the  reverse  of  the  picture.  As  the 
outside  is  fairyland,  so  this  is  inferno. 

We  battled  our  way  to  our  carriages  and  drove 
across  the  bridge  to  Stamboul.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  there.  But  that  was  a  mistake — it  was 
worse.  We  entered  some  narrow,  thronging  streets 
— ^a  sort  of  general  market,  I  should  say — that  fairly 
reeked  with  offal.  We  saw  presently  that  nearly 
everybody  wore  rubbers,  or  stilted  shoes  —  wooden 
sandal  things,  with  two  or  three  inches  of  heel  and 
sole — and  we  understood  why ;  it  was  to  lift  them  out 
of  the  filth.  I  have  had  dreams  where,  whichever 
way  I  turned,  lay  ordure  and  corruption,  with  no  way 
out  on  any  side.  Such  dreams  were  hardly  worse 
than  this.  A  passenger  of  our  party — ^a  lady — said 
afterwards : 

''When  we  drove  through  those  streets  I  felt  as 
if  I  had  died  and  gone  to  hell." 

151 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Yet  on  the  whole,  I  think  hell  would  be  cleaner. 
I  am  sure  it  would  not  smell  so.  I  have  no  special 
preference  for  brimstone,  but  I  would  have  welcomed 
it  as  we  drove  through  those  Constantinople  streets. 

I  know  what  they  smell  like;  I  can  describe  it 
exactly:  they  smell  like  a  garbage -can.  Not  the 
average  garbage -can — fairly  fresh  and  leading  the 
busy  life — but  an  old,  opulent,  tired  garbage-can — 
one  that  has  been  filled  up  and  overlooked,  in  August. 
Now  and  then  at  home  a  can  like  that  gets  into  the 
garbage-wagon,  and  when  that  wagon  comes  along 
the  street  on  a  still  summer  morning  it  arrests  atten- 
tion. I  have  seen  strong  men  turn  pale  and  lovely 
women  totter  when  that  can  went  by. 

It  would  have  no  distinction  in  Constantinople. 
The  whole  city  is  just  one  vast  garbage-can,  and  old — 
so  old — ^why,  for  a  thousand  years  or  more  they  have 
been  throwing  stuff  into  the  streets  for  the  dogs  to 
eat  up,  and  the  dogs  can't  eat  some  things,  and  so — 

Never  mind;  enough  is  enough;  but  if  ever  I  get 
home,  and  if  ever  I  want  to  recall  vividly  this  vision 
of  the  East,  I  shall  close  my  eyes  when  that  garbage- 
wagon  drives  by,  and  once  more  the  panaroma — 
panorama,  I  mean — of  these  thronging  streets  will 
unfold ;  I  shall  be  transported  once  more  to  the  heart 
of  this  busy  city ;  I  shall  see  again  all  the  outlandish 
dress,  all  the  strange  faces,  all  the  mosques  and 
minarets,  all  the  magic  of  the  Orient,  and  I  shall  say, 
"This  is  it — this  is  the  spicy  East — this  is  Constanti- 
nople— ^Allah  is  indeed  good!" 

It  was  at  the  entrance  of  the  mosque  of  St.  Sophia 
— a  filthy  entrance  through  a  sort  of  an  alley — that 

152 


A  City  of  Illusion 


we  heard  our  first  cry  of  "Baksheesh!" — ^a  plaintive 
cry  from  a  pretty,  pathetic  Httle  girl  who  clung  to  us, 
and  called  it  over  and  over  like  the  cry  of  a  soul 
being  dragged  to  perdition — "Bak-she-^-^-5/t/  Bak- 
sk-e-e-e-shV  a  long-drawn-out  wail.  Not  one  of  us 
who  would  not  have  given  her  freely  had  we  not 
known  that  to  do  so  would  be  to  touch  off  the  cyclone 
— the  cloud  of  vultures  hovering  on  the  outskirts. 
One's  heart  grows  hard  in  the  East;  it  has  to. 

At  the  door  of  the  mosque  there  was  a  group  of 
creatures  who  put  slippers  on  us  and  made  a  pretence 
of  tying  the  wretched  things.  They  didn't  do  it,  of 
course,  and  one  had  to  slide  and  skate  and  straddle  to 
keep  from  losing  them — ^which  thing  would  be  a  fearful 
desecration — ^we  being  ** Christian  dogs."  The  Apos- 
tle in  those  slippers,  skating  and  straddling  and 
puffing  his  way  through  St.  Sophia's  was  worth 
coming  far  to  see. 

It  is  a  mighty  place,  a  grand  place,  but  it  has  been 
described  too  often  for  me  to  attempt  the  details  here. 
It  is  very,  very  old,  and  they  have  some  candles  there 
ten  feet  high  and  ten  inches  through  (they  look  exact- 
ly like  smooth  marble  columns  and  make  the  place 
very  holy) ,  and  there  are  some  good  rugs  on  the  floor. 
Several  of  our  party  who  are  interested  in  such  things 
agreed  that  the  rugs  are  valuable,  though  they  are 
laid  crooked,  as  they  all  point  toward  Mecca,  whereas 
the  mosque,  originally  a  Christian  church,  stands  with 
the  points  of  the  compass. 

It  has  been  built  and  rebuilt  a  good  many  times. 
The  Emperor  Justinian  was  its  last  great  builder, 
and  he  robbed  the  ruins  of  Ephesus  and  Baalbec  of 

153 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


certain  precious  columns  for  his  purpose.  On  Christ- 
mas Day,  537  a.d.,  he  finished  and  dedicated  his  work. 
Altogether  he  had  spent  five  million  dollars  on  the 
undertaking  and  had  nearly  bankrupted  the  empire. 
Nine  hundred  years  later  the  Turks  captured  Con- 
stantinople, and  Mohammed  II.,  with  drawn  sword, 
rode  into  St.  Sophia's  and  made  the  bloody  handprint 
which  remains  the  Moslem  ruler's  sign-manual  to  this 
day.  They  showed  us  the  print,  but  I  don't  think  it 
is  the  same  one.  It  may  be,  but  I  don't  think  so — 
unless  Mohammed  was  riding  a  camel. 

Some  kind  of  ceremony  was  in  progress  when  we 
arrived,  but  as  usual  in  such  places,  we  did  not  mind. 
We  went  right  in  just  the  same,  and  our  guides,  too, 
and  we  talked  and  pointed  and  did  what  we  could  to 
break  up  the  services.  Old  turbaned  sons  of  the 
Prophet  were  kneeling  and  bowing  and  praying  here 
and  there,  and  were  a  good  deal  in  the  way.  Some- 
times we  fell  over  them,  but  we  were  charitably  dis- 
posed and  did  not  kick  them — at  least,  I  didn't,  and 
I  don't  think  any  of  the  party  did.  We  might  kick 
a  dog — kick  at  him,  I  mean — if  we  tripped  over  one, 
but  we  do  not  kick  a  Moslem — ^not  a  live  one.  We 
only  take  his  picture  and  step  on  him  and  muss  him 
up,  and  make  a  few  notes  and  go. 

I  have  been  wondering  what  would  happen  to  a 
party  of  tourists — Moslems,  for  instance — ^who  broke 
into  an  American  church  during  services,  with  guides 
to  point  and  explain,  and  stared  at  the  people  who 
were  saying  their  prayers,  and  talked  them  over  as  if 
they  were  wax  figures.  An  American  congregation 
would  be  annoyed  by  a  mob  like  that,  and  would 

154 


A  City  of  Illusion 


remove  it  and  put  it  in  the  calaboose.  But  then  such 
things  wouldn't  happen  in  America.  We  have  cowed 
our  foreign  visitors.  Besides,  there  is  nothing  in  an 
American  church  that  a  foreigner  would  care  to  see. 

We  went  to  other  mosques :  to  Suleiman,  to  Ahmed, 
to  the  "Pigeon"  mosque  with  its  gentle  birds  that 
come  in  clouds  to  be  fed,  but  there  is  a  good  deal  of 
sameness  in  these  splendid  edifices.  Not  that  they 
are  alike,  but  they  seem  alike,  with  their  mellow  lights, 
their  alcoves  and  sacred  sanctuaries;  their  gigantic 
wax  candles;  their  little  Turkeys — ^Turkish  boys,  I 
mean — rocking  and  singing  the  Koran,  learning  to  be 
priests.  And  everywhere,  whether  it  be  prayer-time 
or  not,  there  were  old  bearded  men  prostrated  in 
worship  or  bowed  in  contemplation.  Quite  frequently 
we  sat  down  on  these  praying  men  to  rest  a  little,  but 
they  were  too  absorbed  to  notice  it. 

There  were  no  women  in  the  mosques.  The  men 
supply  the  souls  and  the  religion  for  the  Turkish 
household.  A  woman  has  no  use  for  a  soul  in  Turkey. 
She  wouldn't  know  what  to  do  with  it,  and  it  would 
only  make  her  trouble.  She  is  allowed  to  pretend 
she  has  one,  however,  and  to  go  to  mosque  now  and 
then,  just  as  we  allow  children  to  play  ** store"  or 
** keeping-house."  But  it's  make  believe.  She  really 
hasn't  any  soul — everybody  knows  that. 

Constantinople  is  full  of  landmarks  that  perpetuate 
some  memory — usually  a  bloody  one — of  the  Janiz- 
aries. Every  little  while  our  guide  would  say,  'This 
is  where  the  Janizaries  conquered  the  forces  of 
Abdullah  VI.";  or  ''This  is  where  the  Janizaries 
overthrew  and  assassinated  Mahmoud  I.";  or  "This 

155 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


is  where  the  Janizaries  attacked  the  forces  of  His 
Sacred  Majesty  Bismillah  IL,"  and  everybody  would 
say,  *'0h,  yes,  of  course,"  and  we  would  go  on. 

I  said,  *'0h  yes,  of  course,"  with  the  others,  which 
made  it  hard,  later  on,  when  I  had  worked  up  some 
curiosity  on  the  subject,  to  ask  who  in  the  deuce 
the  Janizaries  were,  anyway,  and  why  they  had  been 
allowed  to  do  all  these  bloody  things  unreproved. 

By  and  by  we  came  to  a  place  where  the  guide  said 
that  eight  thousand  of  them  had  perished  in  the 
flames,  and  added  that  fifteen  thousand  more  had  been 
executed  and  twenty  thousand  banished.  And  we  all 
said,  "Oh  yes,  of  course,"  again,  and  this  time  I 
meant  it,  for  I  thought  that  was  about  what  would 
be  likely  to  happen  to  persons  with  Janizary  habits. 
Then  I  made  a  memorandum  to  look  up  that  tribe 
when  I  got  back  to  the  ship. 

I  have  done  so,  now.  The  Janizaries  were  a  body 
of  military  police,  organized  about  1330,  originally 
of  young  Christians  compelled  to  become  Moslems. 
They  became  a  powerful  and  terrible  body,  by  and  by, 
and  conducted  matters  with  a  high  hand.  They 
were  a  wild,  impetuous  horde,  and  five  hundred  years 
of  their  history  is  full  of  assassinations  of  sultans  and 
general  ravage  and  bloodshed.  In  time  they  became 
a  great  deal  more  dangerous  to  Turkey  than  her 
enemies,  but  it  was  not  until  1826  that  a  sultan, 
Mahmoud  II.,  managed  to  arouse  other  portions  of  his 
army  to  that  pitch  of  fanatical  zeal  which  has  made 
Janizaries  exceedingly  scarce  ever  since.  I  think  our 
guide  is  a  Janizary — he  has  the  look — but  I  have 
decided  not  to  mention  the  matter. 

156 


A  City  of  Illusion 


We  skated  through  mosques  and  the  tombs  of 
sultans  and  their  wives  most  of  the  day,  appraising 
the  rugs  and  shawls  and  general  hric-h-hrac,  and 
dropped  into  a  museum — the  best  one,  so  far,  in  my 
opinion.  They  have  a  sarcophagus  of  Alexander 
there — that  is,  it  was  made  for  Alexander,  though  it 
is  said  he  never  slept  in  it,  which  is  too  bad,  if  true, 
for  it  is  the  most  beautiful  thing  in  the  world — re- 
garded by  experts  as  the  finest  existing  specimen  of 
Greek  art.  We  lingered  a  long  time  about  that  ex- 
quisite gem — long  for  us — and  bought  photographs 
of  it  when  we  came  away.  Then  we  set  out  for  the 
Long  Street  of  Smells,  crossed  the  Galata  bridge,  and 
were  at  the  ship — home. 

We  have  only  made  a  beginning  of  Constantinople, 
for  we  are  to  be  here  several  days.  But  if  it  is  all 
like  to-day  I  could  do  with  less  of  it.  I  have  got 
enough  of  that  smell  to  last  a  good  while,  and  of  the 
pandemonium  that  reigns  in  this  disordered  aggrega- 
tion of  thoroughfares,  humanity  and  buildings — this 
weird  phantasmagoria  miscalled  a  city.  Through  my 
port-hole,  now — I  am  on  the  street  side — there  comes 
the  most  devilish  concatenation  of  sounds:  dogs 
barking  and  yelping,  barbaric  singing,  wild  mandolin 
music,  all  mingled  with  the  cries  of  the  hawkers  and 
street  arabs,  and  when  I  reflect  that  this  is  the  real 
inwardness  of  that  wonder  dream  we  saw  at  sunrise, 
I  am  filled  with  a  far  regret  that  we  could  not  have 
satisfied  ourselves  with  that  vision  of  paradise  and 
sailed  away. 
11 


XIX 

THE    TURK    AND    SOME    OF    HIS    PHASES 

IF  one  wants  to  get  a  fair  idea  of  the  mixed  popu- 
lation of  Constantinople,  when  the  city's  phantas- 
magoric life  is  in  full  swing,  he  may  walk  slowly 
across  the  Galata  bridge,  or  he  may  stand  still  and 
watch  the  kaleidoscope  revolve.  Every  costume, 
every  color  and  kind  of  fabric,  every  type  of  Oriental 
will  be  represented  there.  It  is  a  wild  fancy-dress 
parade  let  loose — only  that  most  of  the  bizarre  cos- 
tumes are  rather  dingy  and  have  the  look  of  be- 
longing to  their  wearers,  which  is  less  likely  to  be 
so  on  an  artificial  occasion. 

The  red  fez  predominates  as  to  head-gear,  and  san- 
guinary waves  of  them  go  by.  But  there  is  every 
manner  of  turban,  too,  and  the  different  kinds  are 
interesting.  Some  of  them  are  bound  with  rope  or 
cord;  some  with  twisted  horsehair  (those  are  Be- 
douins, I  believe) ;  some  are  wound  with  white  muslin 
— these  are  worn  by  priests — and  some  are  wound  or 
bound  with  green,  which  indicates  that  the  wearer  is 
a  descendant  of  Mohammed  himself — that  is,  a  ''Son 
of  the  Prophet."  The  Prophet  seems  to  have  a  good 
many  descendants — not  so  many  as  Israel  had  in  the 
same  length  of  time,  but  still  an  industrious  showing. 

One  might  suppose  that  these  wearers  of  the  green 
turban  would  be  marked  for  special  honor,  and  per- 

IS8 


The   Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases 

haps  they  are,  but  by  no  means  are  they  all  men  of 
leisure.  I  saw  one  ** wearer  of  the  green"  tooling  a 
tram  to  the  Seven  Towxrs,  and  another  son  of  the 
Prophet — a  venerable  man — bowed  beneath  a  great 
box  until  his  white  beard  and  the  rear  elevation  of 
his  trousers  nearly  dragged  in  the  dust. 

I  think,  by-the-way,  I  am  more  interested  in  the 
Turkish  trousers  than  in  any  other  article  of  national 
dress.  They  are  rather  short  as  to  leg,  but  what  they 
lack  in  length  they  make  up  in  width  and  general 
amplitude.  There  is  enough  goods  in  the  average 
pair  of  Turkish  trousers  to  make  a  whole  suit  of  clothes 
with  material  left  for  repairs.  They  are  ridiculous 
enough  from  the  front  and  the  rear,  but  I  rather  like 
a  side  view  best.  The  long  after-part  has  such  a 
drooping  pendulous  swing  to  it,  and  one  gets  the 
full  value  of  the  outline  in  profile  and  can  calculate 
just  what  portion  of  it  is  occupied  by  the  owner,  and 
can  lose  himself  in  speculation  as  to  what  the  rest  is 
for.  I  like  freedom  and  comfort  well  enough,  too,  in 
my  clothes,  but  I  would  not  be  willing  to  sacrifice  in 
the  length  of  my  trousers  for  the  sake  of  that  laundry- 
bag  effect  in  the  rear.  I  can  admire  it,  though,  and 
I  do,  often. 

At  the  Stamboul  end  of  the  Galata  bridge  is  the 
most  picturesque  group,  I  believe,  in  the  Orient.  A 
coffee-house  is  there,  and  in  front  of  it  all  the  picture 
types  of  the  East  are  gathered,  with  not  a  single  Cau- 
casian face  or  dress.  When  I  used  to  look  at  the 
gorgeously  extravagant  costumes  and  the  flowing 
beards  and  patriarchal  faces  of  the  paintings  and 
illustrations  of  the  East,  I  said:    ''No,  they  do  not 

159 


The  Ship  "Jewellers 


really  exist.  They  may  have  done  so  once,  but  not 
to-day.  I  have  seen  the  Indian  of  my  own  country  in 
his  native  sage-brush,  and  he  is  no  longer  the  Indian 
of  the  pictures.  His  dress  is  adulterated  with  ready- 
made  trousers  and  a  straw  hat;  his  face  is  mixed  in 
color  and  feature;  with  the  Orient  it  must  be  the 
same." 

I  was  mistaken.  All  the  picture  people  are  collected 
here,  and  more  than  picture  ever  saw.  No  sober 
imagination  could  conceive  the  scene  at  the  end  of 
the  Galata  bridge.  To  present  it  a  painter  would 
have  to  inebriate  himself,  spill  his  colors  all  about 
the  place  and  wind  up  with  the  jimjams.  What 
do  these  people  do  there?  They  indulge  in  keyeff. 
There  is  no  English  word  for  keyeff — no  word  in  any 
language,  probably,  except  Turkish.  It  is  not  done 
in  any  other  language.  Keyeff  is  a  condition  of  pure 
enjoyment,  unimpaired  even  by  thought.  Over  his 
coffee  and  nargileh  the  Turk  will  sit  for  hours  in  a 
thought- vacancy  which  the  Western  mind  can  compre- 
hend no  more  than  it  can  grasp  the  fourth  dimension. 
It  is  not  contemplation — that  would  require  mental 
exercise.  It  is  absence  of  thought — utter  absence  of 
effort — oblivion — the  condition  for  which  the  Western 
mind  requires  chloroform. 

From  the  end  of  the  Galata  bridge  the  thronged 
streets  diverge,  and  into  these  a  motley  procession 
flows.  Men  of  every  calling  under  the  sun — mer- 
chants, clerks,  mechanics,  laborers,  peddlers,  beggars, 
bandits — all  men — or  nearly  all,  for  the  Mohammedan 
woman  mostly  bides  at  home. 

It  is  just  as  well  that  she  does,  if  one  may  judge 

1 60 


The   Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases 

from  the  samples.  She  is  not  interesting,  I  think. 
She  may  be,  but  my  opinion  is  the  other  way.  She 
dresses  in  a  sort  of  domino,  usually  of  dingy  goods, 
her  feet  and  ankles  showing  disreputable  stockings 
and  shoes.  Even  the  richest  silk  garments,  when 
worn  by  women — ^those  one  sees  on  the  street — have  a 
way  of  revealing  disgusting  foot-gear  and  hosiery. 
No,  the  Mohammedan  woman  is  not  interesting  and 
she  has  no  soul.  I  believe  the  Prophet  decided  that, 
and  I  agree  with  him.  If  she  had  one — a  real  femi- 
nine soul — she  would  be  more  particular  about  these 
details. 

The  Turk  is  a  dingy  person  altogether,  and  his  city 
is  unholy  in  its  squalor.  Yet  the  religion  of  these 
people  commands  cleanliness.  Only  the  command 
w^as  not  clear  enough  as  to  terms.  The  Prophet 
bade  his  followers  to  be  as  cleanly  as  possible.  There 
was  latitude  in  an  order  like  that,  and  they  have  been 
widening  it  ever  since.  I  don't  believe  they  are  as 
"clean  as  possible.'*  They  pray  five  times  a  day, 
and  they  wash  before  prayer,  but  they  wash  too  little 
and  pray  too  much  for  the  best  results.  I  mean  so 
far  as  outward  appearance  is  concerned.  Very  likely 
their  souls  are  perfect. 

At  all  events  they  are  sober.  The  Prophet  com- 
manded abstinence,  and  I  saw  no  drunkenness.  There 
are  no  saloons  in  Constantinople.  One  may  buy 
"brandy-sticks" — canes  with  long  glass  phials  con- 
cealed in  them  and  a  tiny  glass  for  tippling — though 
I  suspect  these  are  sold  mostly  to  visitors. 

You  are  in  the  business  part  of  Constantinople  as 
soon  as  you  leave  the  bridge — in  the  markets  and 

i6i 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


shops,  and  presently  in  the  bazaars.  The  streets  are 
only  a  few  feet  wide,  and  are  swarming  with  men  and 
beasts  of  burden,  yet  carriages  dash  through,  and  the 
population  falls  out  of  the  way,  cursing  the  ''Christian 
dogs,"  no  doubt,  in  the  case  of  tourists.  Yet  let  a 
carriage  but  stop  and  there  is  eager  attention  on 
every  hand — a  lavish  willingness  to  serve,  to  dance 
attendance,  to  grovel,  to  do  anything  that  will  bring 
return. 

The  excursionist,  in  fact,  presently  gets  an  idea  that 
these  people  are  conducting  a  sort  of  continuous 
entertainment  for  his  benefit — a  permanent  World's 
Fair  Midway  Plaisance,  as  it  were,  where  curious 
wares  and  sights  are  arranged  for  his  special  diversion. 
He  is  hardly  to  be  blamed  for  this  notion.  He  sees 
every  native  ready  to  jump  to  serve  him — to  leave 
everything  else  for  his  pleasure.  The  shopkeeper  will 
let  a  native  customer  wait  and  fume  till  doomsday 
as  long  as  the  tourist  is  even  a  prospect.  The  native 
piastre  is  nothing  to  him  when  American  gold  is  in 
sight.  That  is  what  he  lives  for  by  day  and  dreams 
of  by  night.  He  will  sweat  for  it,  lie  for  it,  steal  for 
it,  die  for  it.  It  is  his  life,  his  hope,  his  salvation. 
He  will  give  everything  but  his  immortal  soul  for  the 
gold  of  the  West,  and  he  would  give  that  too,  if  it 
would  bring  anything. 

Most  places  along  the  Mediterranean  deal  in  mixed 
moneys,  but  compared  with  Constantinople  the  finan- 
cial problem  elsewhere  is  simple.  Here  the  traveller's 
pocket  is  a  medley  of  francs,  lire,  crowns,  piastres, 
drachmas,  marks,  and  American  coins  of  various 
denominations.      He    tries   feebly   to  keep  track   of 

162 


The   Turk  and  Sotne  of  His  Phases 

table  values,  but  it  is  no  use.  The  crafty  shopkeepers, 
who  have  all  the  world's  monetary  lore  at  their  finger- 
tips, rob  him  every  time  they  make  change,  and  the 
more  he  tries  to  figure  the  more  muddled  he  gets, 
until  he  actually  can't  calculate  the  coin  of  his  own 
realm. 

As  for  Turkish  money,  in  my  opinion  it  is  worth 
nothing  whatever.  It  is  mostly  a  lot  of  tinware  and 
plated  stuff,  and  the  plating  is  worn  off,  and  the 
hieroglyphics,  and  it  was  never  anything  more  than 
a  lot  of  silly  medals  in  the  beginning.  Whenever  I 
get  any  of  it  I  work  it  off  on  beggars  as  quickly  as 
possible  for  baksheesh,  and  I  always  feel  guilty,  and 
look  the  other  way  and  sing  a  little  to  forget. 

Nobody  really  knows  what  any  of  those  Turkish 
metallic  coins  are  supposed  to  be  worth.  One  of 
them  will  pay  for  a  shine,  but  then  the  shine  isn't 
worth  anything,  either,  so  that  is  no  basis  of  value. 
There  is  actually  no  legal  tender  in  Turkey.  How 
could  there  be,  with  a  make-believe  money  like  that  ? 

Speaking  of  bootblacks,  they  all  sit  in  a  row  at  the 
other  end  of  the  Galata  bridge,  and  they  go  to  sleep 
over  your  shoes  and  pretend  to  work  on  them  and  take 
off  the  polish  you  gave  them  yourself  in  the  morning. 
They  have  curious-looking  boxes,  and  their  work  is  as 
nearly  useless  as  any  effort,  if  it  is  that,  I  have  ever 
known. 

I  have  been  trying  for  a  page  or  two  to  say  some- 
thing more  about  the  streets  of  Constantinople,  and 
now  I've  forgotten  what  it  was  I  wanted  to  say. 
Most  of  them  are  not  streets  at  all,  in  fact,  but  alleys, 
wretched  alleys — some  of  them  roofed  over — and  as 

163 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


you  drive  through  them  your  face  gets  all  out  of 
shape  trying  to  fit  itself  to  the  sights  and  smells.  I 
remember  now;  I  wanted  to  mention  the  donkeys — 
the  poor,  patient  little  beasts  of  burden  that  plod 
through  those  thoroughfares,  weighed  down  with 
great  loads  of  brick  and  dirt  and  wood  and  every 
sort  of  heavy  thing,  enough  to  make  a  camel  sway- 
backed,  I  should  think.  They  are  the  gentlest 
creatures  alive,  and  the  most  imposed  upon.  If  Mo- 
hammed provided  a  heaven  for  the  donkeys,  I  hope 
it  isn't  the  one  the  Turks  go  to. 

Then  there  are  the  fountains — that  is,  the  public 
watering-places.  They  are  nearly  all  carved  in  relief 
and  belong  to  an  earlier  period,  when  art  here  was 
worth  something.  Here  and  there  is  a  modern  one — 
gaudy,  tinsel,  wretched. 

But  one  has  to  stop  a  minute  to  remember  that  these 
old  streets  are  not  always  occupied  by  the  turbans 
and  fezzes  of  the  unspeakable  Turk.  Constantinople 
was  Greek  in  the  beginning,  founded  away  back,  six 
hundred  years  or  more  B.C.,  and  named  Byzantium, 
after  one  Byzas,  its  founder.  The  colony  had  started 
to  settle  several  miles  farther  up  the  Golden  Horn, 
when  a  crow  came  along  and  carried  off  a  piece  of 
their  sacrificial  meat.  They  were  mad  at  first;  but 
when  they  found  he  had  dropped  it  over  on  Bosporus 
Point  they  concluded  to  take  his  judgment  and  settle 
there  instead. 

Then  came  a  good  many  changes.  Persians  and 
Greeks  held  the  place  by  turns,  and  by  and  by  it  was 
allied  to  Rome.  The  Christian  Emperor  Constantine 
made  it  his  capital  about  328  a.d.  and  called  it  New 

164 


The   Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases 

Rome.  But  the  people  wouldn't  have  that  title.  Con- 
stantine  had  rebuilt  the  city,  and  they  insisted  on 
giving  it  his  name.  So  Constantinople  it  became  and 
remained — ^the  names  Galata,  Pera,  Stamboul,  and 
Skutari  (accent  on  the  *'Sku  ")  being  merely  divisions, 
the  last-named  on  the  Asiatic  side. 

It  was  not  until  eleven  hundred  years  after  Con- 
stantine  that  the  Turkomans  swarmed  in  and  pos- 
sessed themselves  of  what  had  become  a  tottering 
empire.  So  the  Turkish  occupation  is  comparatively 
recent — only  since  1453. 

Still,  that  is  a  good  while  ago,  when  one  considers 
what  has  been  done  elsewhere.  Christopher  Colum- 
bus was  playing  marbles  in  Genoa,  or  helping  his 
father  comb  wool,  then.  America  was  a  place  of 
wigwams — a  habitation  of  Indian  tribes.  We  have 
done  a  good  deal  in  the  four  and  a  half  centuries  since 
— ^more  than  the  Turk  will  do  in  four  and  a  half 
million  years.  The  Turk  is  not  an  express  train.  He 
is  not  even  a  slow  freight.  He  is  not  a  train  at  all, 
but  an  old  caboose  on  the  hind  end  of  day  before 
yesterday.  By  the  way,  I  know  now  why  these  old 
cities  have  still  older  cities  buried  under  them.  They 
never  clean  the  streets,  and  a  city  gets  entirely  cov- 
ered up  at  last  with  dirt. 

I  have  been  wanting  to  speak  of  the  dogs  of  Con- 
stantinople ever  since  I  began  this  chapter.  They  have 
been  always  in  my  mind,  but  I  wanted  to  work  off 
my  ill-nature,  first,  on  the  Turk.  For  I  have  another 
feeling  for  the  dogs — a  friendly  feeling — a  sympathetic 
feeling — an  affectionate  feeling. 

165 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


Every  morning  at  four  o'clock  the  dogs  of  Con- 
stantinople turn  their  faces  toward  Mecca  and  howl 
their  heart-break  to  the  sky.  At  least,  I  suppose 
they  turn  toward  Mecca — that  being  the  general  habit 
here  when  one  has  anything  official  to  give  out.  I 
know  they  howl  and  bark  and  make  such  a  disturbance 
as  is  heard  nowhere  else  on  earth.  In  America,  two  or 
three  dogs  will  keep  a  neighborhood  awake,  but  im- 
agine a  vast  city  of  dogs  all  barking  at  once — forty 
or  fifty  dogs  to  the  block,  counting  the  four  sides! 
Do  you  think  you  could  sleep  during  that  morning 
orison?     If  you  could,  then  you  are  sound-proof. 

I  have  said  that  I  have  an  affection  for  the  dogs,  but 
not  at  that  hour.  It  develops  later,  when  things  have 
quieted  down,  and  I  have  had  breakfast  and  am  con- 
sidering them  over  the  ship's  side.  There  is  a  band 
of  them  owns  this  section  of  the  water-front,  and 
they  are  worth  studying. 

They  are  not  as  unsightly  and  as  wretched  as  I  ex- 
pected to  find  them.  Life  for  them  is  not  a  path  of 
roses,  but  neither  is  it  a  trail  of  absolute  privation. 
They  live  on  refuse,  and  there  is  plenty  of  refuse. 
They  are  in  fair  condition,  therefore,  as  to  flesh,  and 
they  do  not  look  particularly  unhappy,  though  they 
are  dirty  enough,  and  sometimes  mangy  and  moth- 
eaten  and  tufty ;  but  then  the  Turks  themselves  are 
all  of  these  things,  and  why  should  the  dogs  be  other- 
wise? 

The  type  of  these  dogs  impresses  me.  They  have 
reverted  to  the  original  pattern — they  are  wolf-dogs. 
They  vary  only  in  color — usually  some  tone  of  grizzly 
gray — and  not  widely  in  that.     They  have  returned  to 

i66 


The   Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases 

race — to  the  old  wild  breed  that  made  his  bed  in  the 
grass  and  revolved  three  times  before  he  was  ready  to 
lie  down.  One  might  expect  them  to  be  ugly  and 
dangerous,  but  they  are  not.  They  are  the  kindest, 
gentlest  members  of  the  dog  family  notwithstanding 
the  harsh  treatment  they  receive,  and  the  most  intelli- 
gent. No  one  really  human  can  study  them  without 
sympathy  and  admiration. 

I  have  watched  these  dogs  a  good  deal  since  we 
came  here,  and  a  lady  of  Constantinople,  the  wife  of  a 
foreign  minister,  has  added  largely  to  my  information 
on  the  subject. 

They  are  quite  wonderful  in  many  ways.  They 
have  divided  themselves  into  groups  or  squads,  and 
their  territory  into  districts,  with  borders  exactly 
defined.  They  know  just  about  how  much  substance 
each  district  will  supply  and  the  squads  are  not  allowed 
to  grow.  There  is  a  captain  to  each  of  these  com- 
panies, and  his  rule  is  absolute.  When  the  garbage 
from  each  house  is  brought  out  and  dumped  into  the 
street,  he  oversees  the  distribution  and  keeps  order. 
He  keeps  it,  too.  There  is  no  fighting  and  very  little 
discord,  unless  some  outlaw  dog  from  a  neighboring 
group  attempts  to  make  an  incursion.  Then  there  is 
a  wild  outbreak,  and  if  the  dog  escapes  undamaged 
he  is  lucky. 

The  captain  of  a  group  is  a  sultan  with  the  power 
of  life  and  death  over  his  subjects.  When  puppies 
come  along  he  designates  the  few — ^the  very  few — ^that 
are  to  live,  and  one  mother  nurses  several  of  the  re- 
duced litters — the  different  mothers  taking  turns. 
When  a  dog  gets  too  old  to  be  useful  in  the  strenuous 

167 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


round — when  he  is  no  longer  valuable  to  the  band — he 
is  systematically  put  out  of  the  way  by  starvation.  A 
day  comes  when  the  captain  issues  some  kind  of  an 
edict  that  he  is  no  longer  to  have  food.  From  that 
moment,  until  his  death,  not  a  morsel  passes  his  lips. 
With  longing  eyes  he  looks  at  the  others  eating,  but 
he  makes  no  attempt  to  join  them.  Now  and  again 
a  bit  of  something  falls  his  way.  The  temptation  is 
too  strong  —  he  reaches  toward  the  morsel.  The 
captain,  who  overlooks  nothing,  gives  a  low  growl. 
The  dying  creature  shrinks  back  without  a  murmur. 
He  knows  the  law.  Perhaps  he,  too,  was  once  a 
captain. 

The  minister's  wife  told  me  that  she  had  tried  to 
feed  one  of  those  dying  dogs,  but  that  even  when  the 
food  was  placed  in  front  of  him  he  would  only  look 
pleadingly  at  the  captain  and  refuse  to  touch  it.  She 
brought  him  inside,  at  last,  where  he  was  no  longer 
under  that  deadly  surveillance.  He  ate  then,  but 
lived  only  a  little  while.  Perhaps  it  was  too  late; 
perhaps  the  decree  was  not  to  be  disobeyed,  even 
there. 

As  a  rule,  it  is  unwise  to  show  kindness  or  the  least 
attention  to  these  dogs,  she  said.  The  slightest  word 
or  notice  unlocks  such  a  storehouse  of  gratitude  and 
heart-hunger  in  those  poor  creatures  that  one  can 
never  venture  near  that  neighborhood  again  without 
being  fairly  overwhelmed  with  devotion.  Speak  a 
word  to  one  of  them  and  he  will  desert  his  com- 
panions and  follow  you  for  miles. 

The  minister's  wife  told  how  once  a  male  member 
of  her  household  had  shown  some  mark  of  attention 

i68 


The   Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases 

to  one  of  the  dogs  of  their  neighborhood  group.  A 
day  or  two  later  she  set  out  for  a  walk,  carrying  her 
parasol,  holding  it  downward.  Suddenly  she  felt  it 
taken  from  her  hand.  Looking  down,  she  saw  a  dog 
walking  by  her  side,  carrying  it.  It  was  the  favored 
animal,  trying  to  make  return  to  any  one  who  came 
out  of  that  heavenly  house. 

She  told  me  how  in  the  winter  the  dogs  pile  up  in 
pyramids  to  keep  warm,  and  how  those  underneath, 
when  they  have  smothered  as  long  as  they  can,  will 
work  out  and  get  to  the  top  of  the  heap  and  let  the 
others  have  a  chance  to  get  warm  and  smothered  too. 

Once,  when  some  excavations  were  going  on  in  her 
neighborhood  the  dogs  of  several  bands,  made  kin  by  a 
vigorous  touch  of  nature,  cold,  had  packed  themselves 
into  a  sort  of  tunnel  which  the  workmen  had  made. 
One  dog  who  had  come  a  little  late  was  left  outside. 
He  made  one  or  two  efforts  to  get  a  position,  but  it 
was  no  use.  He  reflected  upon  the  situation  and 
presently  set  up  a  loud  barking.  That  was  too  much 
for  those  other  dogs.  They  came  tumbling  out  to  see 
what  had  happened,  but  before  they  had  a  chance  to 
find  out,  the  late  arrival  had  slipped  quietly  in  and 
established  himself  in  the  warmest  place. 

Once  a  pasha  visited  a  certain  neighborhood  in  Pera, 
and  the  dogs  kept  him  awake.  In  his  irritation  he 
issued  an  order  that  the  dogs  of  that  environment 
should  be  killed.  The  order  was  carried  out,  and  for 
a  day  and  a  night  there  was  silence  there.  But  then 
the  word  had  gone  forth  that  a  section  of  rich  territory 
had  been  vacated,  and  there  was  a  rush  for  it  that  was 
like  the  occupation  of  the  Oklahoma  strip. 

169 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


There  was  trouble,  too,  in  establishing  the  claim  and 
electing  officers.  No  such  excitement  and  commotion 
and  general  riot  had  ever  been  known  in  that  street 
before.  It  lasted  two  days  and  nights.  Then  every- 
thing was  peaceable  enough.  Captains  had  fought 
their  way  to  a  scarred  and  limping  victory.  Claims 
had  been  duly  surveyed  and  distributed.  The  pasha 
had  retired  permanently  from  the  neighborhood. 

It  is  against  the  law  for  the  ordinary  citizen  to  kill 
one  of  the  dogs.  They  are  scavengers,  and  the  law 
protects  them.  One  may  kick  and  beat  and  scald  and 
maim  them,  and  the  Turk  has  a  habit  of  doing  these 
things ;  but  he  must  not  kill  them — not  unless  he  is  a 
pasha.  And,  after  all,  the  dogs  own  Constantinople — 
the  pariah  dogs,  I  mean;  there  are  few  of  the  other 
kind.  One  seldom  sees  a  pet  dog  on  the  streets.  The 
pariah  dogs  do  not  care  for  him.  They  do  not  attack 
him,  they  merely  set  up  a  racket  which  throws  that 
pet  dog  into  a  fever  and  fills  him  with  an  abiding 
love  of  home.  But  I  am  dwelling  too  long  on  this 
subject.  I  enjoy  writing  about  these  wonderful  dogs. 
They  interest  me. 

Perhaps  the  ''Young  Turks"  will  improve  Constan- 
tinople. Already  they  have  made  the  streets  safer; 
perhaps  they  will  make  them  cleaner.  Also,  they 
may  improve  the  Turkish  postal  service.  That  would 
be  a  good  place  to  begin,  I  should  think.  Constan- 
tinople has  a  native  post-office,  but  it  isn't  worth  any- 
thing. Anybody  who  wants  a  letter  to  arrive  sends 
it  through  one  of  the  foreign  post-offices,  of  which  each 
European  nation  supports  one  on  its  own  account.  To 
trust  a  letter  to  the  Turkish  post-office  is  to  bid  it  a 

170 


The   Turk  and  Some  of  His  Phases 

permanent  good-bye.  The  officials  will  open  it  for 
money  first,  and  soak  off  the  stamp  afterward.  If 
you  inquire  about  it,  they  will  tell  you  it  was  prob- 
ably seditionary  and  destroyed  by  the  sultan's  or- 
ders. Perhaps  that  will  not  be  so  any  more.  The 
sultan's  late  force  of  twenty  thousand  spies  has  been 
disbanded,  and  things  to-day  are  on  a  much  more 
liberal  basis.  Two  royal  princes  came  aboard  our 
vessel  to-day,  unattended  except  by  an  old  marshal 
— something  which  has  never  happened  here  before. 

These  princes  have  been  virtually  in  prison  all  their 
lives.  Until  very  recently  they  had  never  left  the 
palace  except  under  guard.  They  had  never  been 
aboard  a  vessel  until  they  came  aboard  the  Kurfiirst, 
and  though  grown  men,  they  were  like  children  in 
their  manner  and  their  curiosity.  They  had  never 
seen  a  type-writer.  They  had  never  seen  a  steam- 
engine.  Our  chief  engineer  took  them  down  among 
the  machinery  and  they  were  delighted.  They  greeted 
everybody,  saluted  everybody,  and  drove  away  at 
last  in  their  open  victoria  drawn  by  two  white  horses, 
with  no  outriders,  no  guards,  no  attendants  of  any 
kind  except  the  old  marshal — a  thing  which  only  a 
little  while  ago  would  not  have  been  dreamed  of  as 
possible. 

Perhaps  there  is  hope  for  Turkey,  after  all. 


XX 

ABDUL   HAMID   GOES    TO    PRAYER 

IT  was  on  our  second  day  in  Constantinople  that  we 
saw  the  SelamHk — that  is,  the  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid 
II.  on  his  way  to  prayer.  It  was  Friday,  which  is 
the  Mohammedan  Sunday,  and  the  sultan,  accord- 
ing to  his  custom,  went  to  the  mosque  in  state.  The 
ceremony  was,  in  fact,  a  grand  military  review,  with 
twenty-five  thousand  soldiers  drawn  up  on  the  hillside 
surrounding  the  royal  mosque,  and  many  bands  of 
music ;  the  whole  gay  and  resplendent  with  the  varied 
uniforms  of  different  brigades,  the  trappings  of  high 
officials,  the  flutter  of  waving  banners,  the  splendor 
of  royal  cortege — all  the  fuss  and  fanfare  of  this  fallen 
king.* 

For  Abdul  Hamid  is  no  longer  monarch  except  by 
sufferance.  A  tyrant  who  in  his  time  has  ordered  the 
massacre  of  thousands;  has  imprisoned  and  slain 
members  of  his  own  family;  has  sent  a  multitude  to 
the  Bosporus  and  into  exile;  has  maintained  in  this 

^  Note — a  year  later. — The  Selamlik  here  described  was  among 
the  last  of  such  occasions.  A  few  weeks  later,  in  April,  1909, 
Abdul  Hamid  regained  a  brief  ascendancy,  ordered  the  terrible 
massacres  of  Adana,  and  on  April  27th  was  permanently  de- 
throned. He  was  succeeded  by  his  brother,  Mehmed  V.,  who 
attends  mosque  with  little  or  no  ceremony.  Abdul  meantime 
has  retired  to  Salonica,  where  he  is  living  quietly — as  quietly  as 
one  may  with  seventeen  favorite  wives  and  the  imminent  pros- 
pect of  assassination. 

172 


Abdul  Hamid  Goes  to  Prayer 


enlightened  day  a  court  and  a  rule  of  the  Middle 
Ages — he  is  only  a  figurehead  now,  likely  to  be  re- 
moved at  a  moment's  warning. 

The  Young  Turk  is  in  the  saddle.  Hamid's  force 
of  twenty  thousand  spies  has  been  disbanded.  Men- 
of-war  lie  in  the  Bosporus  just  under  Yildiz,  ready  to 
open  fire  on  that  royal  palace  at  the  first  sign  of  any 
disturbance  there.  The  tottering  old  man  is  still 
allowed  his  royal  guard,  his  harem,  and  this  weekly 
ceremonial  and  display  to  keep  up  a  semblance  of 
imperial  power.  But  he  is  only  a  make-believe  king; 
the  people  know  that,  and  he  knows  it,  too,  best  of  all. 

We  had  special  invitations  from  the  palace  and  a 
special  enclosure  from  which  to  view  the  cei^emony. 
We  had  cakes,  too,  and  sherbet  served  while  we 
waited — by  the  sultan's  orders,  it  was  said — but  I 
didn't  take  any.  I  thought  Abdul  might  have  heard 
I  didn't  care  for  him  and  put  poison  in  mine.  That 
would  be  like  him. 

I  was  tempted,  though,  for  we  had  driven  a  long  way 
through  the  blinding  dust  It  was  hot  there,  and 
we  had  to  stand  up  and  keep  on  standing  up  while  all 
that  great  review  got  together  and  arranged  and 
rearranged  itself;  while  officials  and  black  Nubian 
eunuchs,  those  sexless  slaves  of  the  harem,  ran  up  and 
down,  and  men  sanded  the  track — that  is,  the  road 
over  which  his  majesty  was  to  drive — and  did  a  hun- 
dred other  things  to  consume  time. 

One  does  not  hurry  the  Orient — one  waits  on  it. 

That  is  a  useful  maxim — I'm  glad  I  invented  it.     I 

said  it  over  about  a  hundred  times  while  we  stood 

there  waiting  for  Abdul  Hamid,  who  was   dallying 

12  173 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


with  certain  favorites,  like  as  not,  and  remembering 
us  not  at  all. 

It  was  worth  seeing,  though.  Brigade  after  brigade 
swung  by  to  the  weird  music  of  their  bands — billow 
after  billow  of  brown,  red,  and  blue  uniforms.  The 
hillside  became  a  perfect  storm  of  fezzes ;  the  tide  of 
spectators  rose  till  its  waves  touched  the  housetops. 

Still  we  waited  and  watched  the  clock  on  the  mosque. 
Nobody  can  tell  time  by  a  Turkish  clock,  but  there 
was  some  comfort  in  watching  it.  Presently  an 
informing  person  at  my  side  explained  that  Turkish 
chronology  is  run  on  an  altogether  different  basis 
from  ours.  There  are  only  three  hundred  and  fifty- 
four  days  in  a  Turkish  year,  he  said,  which  makes  the 
seasons  run  out  a  good  deal  faster,  so  that  it  is  usually 
about  year  after  next  in  Turkey;  but  as  it  is  only 
about  day  before  yesterday  by  the  clock,  the  balance 
is  kept  fairly  even. 

He  was  a  very  entertaining  person.  Referring  to 
the  music,  he  said  that  once  the  sultan's  special  brass 
band  had  played  before  him  so  pleasingly  that  he 
ordered  all  their  instruments  filled  with  gold,  which 
was  well  enough,  except  for  the  piccolo-player,  who 
said:  "Sire,  I  am  left  out  of  this  reward."  ''Never 
mind,"  said  the  sultan,  "your  turn  will  come."  And 
it  did,  next  day,  for  the  band  played  so  badly  that  the 
sultan  roared  out:  "Ram  all  their  instruments  down 
their  throats,"  which  was  impossible,  of  course,  except 
in  the  case  of  the  piccolo-player. 

My  entertainer  said  that  formerly  cameras  were 
allowed  at  the  Selamlik,  but  that  an  incident  occurred 
which  resulted  in  prohibiting  cameras  and  all  suspicious 

174 


Abdul  Hamid  Goes  to  Prayer 


articles.  He  said  that  a  gentleman  engaged  a  carriage 
for  the  Selamlik,  and  explained  to  the  driver  that  he 
had  invented  a  wonderful  new  camera — one  that  would 
take  pictures  in  all  the  colors — and  instructed  him  just 
how  to  work  the  machine. 

The  gentleman  had  to  make  a  train,  he  said,  and 
couldn't  wait  for  the  sultan  to  arrive,  but  if  the  driver 
would  press  the  button  when  the  sultan  reached  a 
certain  place  the  picture  would  take,  after  which  the 
driver  could  bring  the  camera  to  the  Pera  Palace 
Hotel  on  a  certain  day  and  get  a  hundred  piastres, 
a  sum  larger  than  the  driver  had  ever  owned  at  qne 
time.  Then  the  gentleman  left  in  a  good  deal  of  a 
hurry,  and  the  driver  told  all  the  other  drivers  about 
his  good-fortune  while  they  waited;  and  by  and  by, 
when  the  sultan  came,  and  got  just  to  the  place  where 
the  gentleman  had  said,  the  driver  pressed  the  button, 
and  blew  a  hole  seventy-five  feet  wide  and  thirty 
feet  deep  right  on  that  spot,  and  it  rained  drivers  and 
horses  and  fezzes  and  things  for  seven  minutes.  It 
didn't  damage  the  sultan  any,  but  it  gave  him  a  per- 
manent distaste  for  cameras  and  other  suspicious 
objects. 

Laura,  age  fourteen,  who  had  been  listening  to  the 
story,  said: 

"Did  they  do  anything  to  the  driver  who  did  it?" 

"Yes;  they  gathered  him  up  in  a  cigar  box  and 
gave  him  a  funeral.  No,  the  man  didn't  call  for  the 
camera."  • 

I  am  sorry  I  have  kept  the  reader  waiting  for  the 
Selamlik,  but  the  sultan  is  to  blame.  One  may  not 
hurry  a  sultan,  and  one  must  fill  in  the  time,  somehow. 

175 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Some  carriages  go  by  at  last,  and  enter  the  mosque 
enclosure,  but  they  do  not  contain  the  sultan,  only 
some  of  his  favorite  wives,  with  those  long  black 
eunuchs  running  behind.  Then  there  is  a  carriage 
with  a  little  boy  in  it — ^^the  sultan's  favorite  son,  it  is 
said — the  most  beautiful  child  I  ever  saw. 

A  blare  of  trumpets — all  the  bayonets  straight  up — 
a  gleaming  forest  of  them.  Oh,  what  a  bad  time  to 
fall  out  of  a  balloon! 

A  shout  from  the  troops — a  huzzah,  timed  and  per- 
functory, but  general.  Then  men  in  uniform,  walking 
ahead;  a  carriage  with  a  splendid  driver;  a  pale, 
bearded,  hook-nosed  old  man  with  a  tired,  rather 
vacant  face.  Here  and  there  he  touches  his  forehead 
and  his  lips  with  his  fingers,  waving  the  imperial 
salute.  For  a  moment  every  eye  of  that  vast  con- 
course is  upon  him — he  is  the  one  important  bauble 
of  that  splendid  setting.  Then  he  has  passed  be- 
tween the  gates  and  is  gone. 

Thus  it  was  that  Sultan  Abdul  Hamid  attended 
mosque.  It  seemed  a  good  deal  of  fuss  to  make  over 
an  old  man  going  to  prayer. 

We  drove  from  the  Selamlik  to  the  Dancing  Der- 
vishes. I  have  always  heard  of  them  and  now  I 
have  seen  them.     I  am  not  sorry  to  have  it  over. 

Their  headquarters  are  in  a  weather-beaten-frame- 
barn  of  a  place,  and  we  stood  outside  for  a  long  time 
before  the  doors  were  open.  Inside  it  was  hot  and 
close  and  crowded,  and  everybody  twisted  this  way 
and  that  and  stood  up  on  things  to  get  a  look.  I 
held  two  women  together  on  one  chair — they  were 

176 


Abdul  Hatnid  Goes  to  Prayer 


standing  up — and  I  expected  to  give  out  any  minute 
and  turn  loose  a  disaster  that  would  break  up  the 
show.  There  wasn't  anything  to  see,  either;  not  a 
thing,  for  hours. 

We  were  in  a  sort  of  circular  gallery  and  the  dancing- 
floor  was  below.  We  could  see  squatted  there  a  ring 
of  men  —  a  dozen  or  so  bowed,  solemn,  abstracted 
high  priests  in  gowns  of  different  colors  and  tall 
fezzes.  These  were  the  dervishes,  no  doubt,  but 
they  didn't  do  anything — not  a  thing — and  we  didn't 
care  to  stare  at  them  and  at  the  dancing-floor  and  the 
rest  of  the  suffering  audience  forever. 

Then  we  noticed  in  our  gallery  a  little  reserved 
section  with  some  more  abstracted  men  in  gowns 
and  fezzes,  and  after  a  long  time — as  much  as  a  thou- 
sand years,  I  should  think — there  was  an  almost 
imperceptible  movement  in  this  reserved  compart- 
ment, and  one  of  the  elect  produced  some  kind  of 
reed  and  began  to  blow  a  strain  that  must  have  been 
born  when  the  woods  were  temples  and  the  winds 
were  priests — it  was  so  weirdly,  mournfully  enthral- 
ling. I  could  have  listened  to  that  music  and  for- 
gotten all  the  world  if  I  hadn't  been  busy  holding 
those  two  women  on  that  chair. 

The  perspiration  ran  down  and  my  joints  petrified 
while  that  music  droned  on  and  on.  Then  there  was 
another  diversion:  a  man  got  up  and  began  to  sing. 
I  don't  know  why  they  picked  that  particular  man — 
certainly  not  for  his  voice.  It  was  Oriental  singing — 
a  sort  of  chanting  monotone  in  a  nasal  pitch.  Yet 
there  was  something  wild  and  seductive  about  it — 
something   mystical — and    I    liked    it   well    enough. 

177 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


Only  I  didn't  want  it  to  go  on  forever,  situated  as  I 
was.  I  wanted  the  dancing  to  begin,  and  pretty  soon, 
too.  It  didn't,  however.  Nothing  begins  soon  in  the 
Orient. 

But  by-and-by,  when  that  songster  had  wailed  for 
as  much  as  a  week,  those  high  priests  on  the  dancing- 
floor  began  to  show  signs  of  life.  They  moved  a  little ; 
they  got  up ;  they  went  through  some  slow  evolutions 
— to  limber  themselves,  perhaps — then  they  began  to 
whirl. 

The  dance  is  a  religious  rite,  and  it  is  supposed  to 
represent  the  planets  revolving  about  the  sun.  The 
dancers  serve  an  apprenticeship  of  one  thousand  and 
one  days,  and  they  can  whirl  and  keep  on  whirling 
forever  without  getting  dizzy.  The  central  figure, 
who  represents  the  sun,  has  had  the  most  practice, 
no  doubt,  for  he  revolves  just  twice  as  fast  as  the 
planets,  who  are  ranged  in  two  circles  around  him. 
His  performance  is  really  wonderful.  I  did  not  think 
so  much  of  the  others,  except  as  to  their  ability  to 
stand  upright.  I  thought  I  could  revolve  as  fast  as 
they  did,  myself,  and  I  would  have  given  four  dollars 
for  a  little  freedom  just  then  to  try  it. 

Would  that  constellation  never  run  down?  The 
satellites  whirled  on  and  on,  and  the  high  priest  in  the 
middle  either  got  faster  or  I  imagined  it.  Then  at 
last  they  stopped — ^just  stopped — that  was  all;  only 
I  let  go  of  those  two  women  then  and  clawed  my  way 
to  fresh  air. 

We  went  to  the  bazaars  after  that.  There  is 
where  the  Kurfurster  finds  real  bliss.  He  may  talk 
learnedly  of  historic  sites  and  rave  over  superb  ruins 

178 


Abdul  Hamid  Goes  to  Prayer 


and  mosques  and  such  things,  when  you  drag  him  in 
carriages  to  see  them.  But  only  say  the  word  bazaar 
to  him  and  he  will  walk  three  miles  to  find  it.  To 
price  the  curious  things  of  the  East;  to  barter  and 
beat  down;  to  walk  away  and  come  back  a  dozen 
times ;  to  buy  at  last  at  a  third  of  the  asking  price — 
such  is  the  passion  that  presently  gets  hold  of  the 
irresponsible  tourist  who  lives  on  one  ship  and  has 
a  permanent  state-room  for  his  things. 

You  should  see  some  of  those  state-rooms!  Jars, 
costumes,  baskets,  rugs,  draperies,  statuary — piled 
everywhere,  hung  everywhere,  stowed  everywhere — 
why,  we  could  combine  the  stuff  on  this  ship  and  open 
a  floating  bazaar  that  would  be  the  wonder  of  the 
world. 

The  bazaars  of  Constantinople  are  crowded  together 
and  roofed  over,  and  there  are  narrow  streets  and 
labyrinthine  lanes.  One  can  buy  anything  there — 
anything  Eastern:  ornaments,  inlaid  work,  silks, 
curious  weapons,  picture  postals  (what  did  those 
Quaker  City  pilgrims  do  without  them?),  all  the  wares 
of  the  Orient — he  can  get  a  good  deal  for  a  little  if 
he  is  patient  and  unyielding — and  he  will  be  cheated 
every  time  he  makes  change.  Never  mind;  one's 
experience  is  always  worth  something,  and  this  par- 
ticular tariff  is  not  likely  to  be  high. 

We  bought  several  things  in  Constantinople,  but 
we  did  not  buy  any  confections.  The  atmosphere 
did  not  seem  suited  to  bonbons,  and  the  places  where 
such  things  were  sold  did  not  look  inviting.  Laura 
inspected  the  assortment  and  decided  that  the  best 
Turkish  Delight  is  made  in  America,  and  that  Broad- 

179 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


way  is  plenty  far  enough  east  for  nougat.  In  one 
bazaar  they  had  a  marvellous  collection  of  royal 
jewels:  swords  with  incrusted  handles ;  caskets  "worth 
a  king's  ransom" — simply  a  mass  of  rubies,  emeralds, 
and  diamonds — half  a  barrel  of  such  things,  at  least, 
but  we  didn't  buy  any  of  those  goods,  either.  We 
would  have  done  so,  of  course,  only  they  were  not 
for  sale. 

We  called  at  the  bazaar  of  Far-away  Moses,  but 
he  wasn't  there.  He  died  only  a  little  while  ago,  and 
has  gone  to  that  grand  bazaar  of  delight  which  the 
Mohammedans  have  selected  as  their  heaven. 

As  usual,  Laura  and  I  were  the  last  to  leave.  We 
were  still  pulling  over  some  things  when  our  driver, 
whom  we  call  Suleiman  because  he  has  such  a  holy, 
villanous  look,  came  suddenly  to  the  entrance,  waving 
frantically.  We  started  then  and  piled  into  our  car- 
riage. The  rest  of  our  party  were  already  off,  and  we 
set  out  helter-skelter  after  them,  Suleiman  probably  be- 
lieving that  the  ship  had  its  anchors  up  ready  to  sail. 

We  were  doing  very  well  when  right  in  front  of  a 
great  arch  one  of  our  horses  fell  down.  We  had  a 
crowd  in  a  minute,  and  as  it  was  getting  dusk  I  can't 
say  that  I  liked  the  situation.  But  Suleiman  got  the 
horse  on  his  feet  somehow,  and  we  pushed  along  and 
once  more  entered  that  diabolical  Street  of  Smells. 
It  had  been  bad  day  by  day,  but  nothing  to  what  it 
was  now.  There  were  no  lights,  except  an  oil-lamp 
here  and  there;  the  place  was  swarming  with  hu- 
manity and  dogs,  general  vileness  permeating  every- 
thing. The  woman  who  thought  she  had  died  and 
gone  to  hell  could  be  certain  of  it  here. 

1 80 


Abdul  Hamid  Goes  to  Prayer 


It  seemed  that  we  would  never  get  out  of  that 
street.  We  had  to  go  slower,  and  the  horrible  gully 
was  eternal  in  its  length.  How  far  ahead  our  party 
was  we  did  not  know.  We  were  entirely  alone 
in  that  unholy  neighborhood  with  our  faithful 
Suleiman,  who  looked  like  a  cutthroat,  anyhow.  I 
wished  he  didn't  look  like  that,  and  Laura  said 
quietly  that  she  never  expected  to  see  the  light  of 
another  dawn. 

Bumpety-bump  —  bark,  howl,  clatter,  darkness, 
stench — rolling  and  pitching  through  that  mess, 
and  then,  heavenly  sight — a  vision  of  lights,  water, 
the  end  of  the  Galata  bridge! 

We  made  our  way  through  the  evening  jam  and  the 
wild  bedlam  at  the  other  end,  crossing  a  crimson  tide 
of  fezzes,  to  reach  the  one  clean  place  we  have  seen 
in  Constantinople  —  that  is,  the  ship.  The  ship  is 
clean — too  clean,  we  think,  when  we  hear  them  scrub- 
bing and  mopping  and  thumping  the  decks  at  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning,  just  about  dog-howling  time. 
Which  brings  me  to  a  specimen  of  our  ship  German — 
American  German — produced  by  a  gentle  soul  named 
Fosdick,  of  Ohio.  He  used  it  on  the  steward  after 
being  kept  awake  by  the  ship-cleaning.  This  is  what 
he  said: 

'  *  Vas  in  damnation  is  das  noise  ?  How  can  I  schlaff 
mit  das  hellgefired  donner-wetter  going  on  oben  mine 
head?" 

That  is  the  sort  of  thing  we  can  do  when  we  get 
really  stirred  up.  It  is  effective,  too.  There  was  no 
unseemly  noise  this  morning. 


XXI 

LOOKING   DOWN    ON   YILDIZ 

HERETOFORE,  during  our  stay  here,  whenever 
any  one  happened  to  mention  the  less  attractive 
aspects  of  Constantinople,  I  have  said : 

"Yes,  the  city  is  pretty  bad,  but  I'll  wager  the 
country  is  a  dream.  Remember  Algiers  and  her 
suburban  villas  ?     It  will  be  the  same  here." 

I  do  not  say  that  any  more,  now  that  we  have  been 
to  the  country.  We  went  over  to  Skutari  (Asiatic 
Constantinople)  this  morning,  and  took  carriages  to 
Bulgurlu  Mountain,  which  overlooks  all  the  city  and 
a  vast  stretch  of  country.  It  is  a  good  view,  but  it 
should  be,  considering  what  it  costs  to  get  there — in 
wear  and  tear,  I  mean. 

Of  all  villanous  roads,  those  outside  Skutari  are 
the  most  depraved.  They  are  not  roads  at  all, 
but  just  washes  and  wallows  and  ditches  and  stone 
gullies.  I  have  seen  bad  roads  in  Virginia — roads 
surveyed  by  George  Washington,  and  never  touched 
since — but  they  were  a  dream  of  luxury  as  compared 
with  these  of  Turkey.  Our  carriages  billowed  and 
bobbed  and  pitched  and  humped  themselves  until  I 
got  out  and  walked  to  keep  from  being  lamed  for  life. 

And  then  the  houses — the  villas  I  had  expected 
to  see;  dear  me,  how  can  I  picture  those  cheap,  ugly, 
unpainted,  overdecorated  architectural  crimes  ?    They 

182 


Looking  Down   on   Tildiz 


are  wooden  and  belong  to  the  jig-saw  period  gone 
mad.  They  suggest  an  owner  who  has  been  too  busy 
saving  money  for  a  home  to  acquire  any  taste ;  who 
has  spent  his  savings  for  lumber  and  trimmings  and 
has  nothing  left  for  paint.  Still,  he  managed  to  re- 
serve enough  to  put  iron  bars  on  his  windows — that  is, 
on  part  of  the  house — ^the  harem — every  man  becom- 
ing his  own  jailer,  as  it  were.     I  remarked: 

'  *  I  suppose  that  is  to  keep  the  neighbors  from  steal- 
ing their  wives." 

But  the  Horse-Doctor — wiser  and  more  observant — 
said: 

''No,  it  is  to  keep  a  neighbor  from  breaking  in  and 
leaving  another." 

Standing  on  the  top  of  Bulgurlu — looking  down 
on  the  Bosporus  and  the  royal  palaces  —  the  wife 
of  a  foreign  minister  told  us  something  of  the  history 
that  has  been  written  there : 

When  Abdul  Aziz,  in  1876,  became  Abdul  **aswas"  * 
(his  veins  were  opened  with  a  penknife,  I  believe),  one 
Murad,  his  nephew,  an  educated  and  travelled  prince, 
came  into  power.  But  Murad  was  for  progress — 
bridges  and  railroads — so  Murad  retired  to  Cheragan 
Palace,  where  for  thirty -two  years  he  sat  at  a  window 
and  looked  out  on  a  world  in  which  he  had  no  part, 
while  Abdul  Hamid  II.  reigned  in  his  stead.  Murad 
was  wise  and  gentle,  and  did  noo  reproach  Abdul, 
who  came  to  him  now  and  again  for  advice  concerning 
matters  of  state. 

But  Murad  was  fond  of  watching  the  people  from 
his  window — excursion  parties  such  as  ours,  and  the 

^  Ship-joke. 

183 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


like — and  these  in  turn  used  to  look  up  at  Murad's 
window;  which  things  in  time  came  to  Abdul  Hamid's 
ears.  Then  Abdul  decided  that  this  indulgence  was 
not  good  for  Murad — nor  for  the  people.  Thirty-two 
years  was  already  too  long  for  that  sort  of  thing.  So 
Murad's  face  disappeared  from  the  window,  and  it  was 
given  out  that  he  had  died — ^the  bulletin  did  not  say 
what  of,  but  merely  mentioned  that  it  had  been  a 
''general  death" — that  is  to  say,  a  natural  death, 
under  the  circumstances — the  kind  of  death  a  retired 
Sultan  is  likely  to  die.  And  Abdul  mourned  for 
Murad  many  days,  and  gave  him  a  costly  funeral. 

That  was  Abdul's  way.  He  was  always  a  good 
brother — always  a  generous  soul — according  to  a 
guide-book  published  in  Constantinople  during  the 
time  when  there  were  twenty  thousand  secret  agents 
inspecting  such  things.  The  author  of  that  book 
wanted  those  twenty  thousand  secret  agents  to  tell 
Abdul  how  good  and  gentle  the  book  said  he  was; 
otherwise,  the  modest  and  humble  Abdul  might  not 
remember.  Besides,  that  author  did  not  wish  to  dis- 
appear from  among  his  friends  and  be  sewed  up  in 
a  sack  and  dropped  into  the  Bosporus  some  quiet 
evening.     But  I  wander — I  always  wander. 

Abdul  Hamid  is  said  to  be  affectionate  with  his 
family — all  his  family — and  quick — very  quick — ^that 
is  to  say,  impulsive.  He  is  a  crack  shot,  too,  and  keeps 
pistols  on  his  dressing-table.  One  day  he  saw  one  of 
his  little  sons — or  it  may  have  been  one  of  his  little 
daughters  (it  isn't  always  easy  to  tell  them  apart, 
when  they  are  so  plentiful  and  dress  a  good  deal  alike), 
but  anyway  this  was  a  favorite  of  Abdul's — he  saw 

184 


Looking  Down   on  Tildiz 


this  child  handling  one  of  his  pistols,  perhaps  playfully 
pointing  it  in  his  direction. 

Hamid  didn't  tell  the  child  to  put  the  weapon 
down,  and  then  lecture  him.  No,  he  couldn't  scold 
the  child,  he  was  too  impulsive  for  that — and  quick, 
as  I  have  mentioned.  He  drew  a  revolver  of  his  own 
and  shot  the  child  dead.  There  were  rumors  of  plots 
floating  around  the  palace  just  then,  and  Hamid 
wasn't  taking  any  chances.  It  must  have  made  his 
heart  bleed  to  have  to  punisb  the  child  in  that  sud- 
den way. 

But  by-and-by  the  times  were  out  of  joint  for  sul- 
tans. A  spirit  of  discontent  was  spreading — there  was 
a  cry  for  freer  government.  Enver  Bey  and  Niazi 
Bey,  those  two  young  officers  whose  names  are  being 
perpetuated  by  male  babies  in  every  Turkish  house- 
hold, disguised  themselves  as  newsboys  or  bootblacks, 
and  going  among  the  people  of  the  streets  whispered 
the  gospel  of  freedom.  Then  one  day  came  the  up- 
heaval of  which  all  the  world  has  read.  Abdul  Hamid 
one  morning,  looking  out  of  his  window  in  Yildiz 
Palace,  saw,  lying  in  the  Bosporus  just  below,  the 
men-of-war  which  all  the  years  of  his  reign  had  been 
turning  to  rust  and  wormwood  in  the  Golden  Horn. 

Abdul  did  not  believe  it  at  first.  He  thought  he 
was  just  having  one  of  those  bad  dreams  that  had 
pestered  him  now  and  then  since  spies  and  massacres 
had  become  unpopular.  He  pinched  himself  and 
rubbed  his  eyes,  but  the  ships  stayed  there.  Then 
he  sent  for  the  Grand  Vizier.  (At  least,  I  suppose  it 
was  the  Grand  Vizier — that  is  what  a  sultan  generally 
sends  for  in  a  case  like  that.)     When  he  arrived  the 

185 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Sultan  was  fingering  his  artillery  and  looking  dan- 
gerous. 

"What  in  h — that  is,  Allah  be  praised,  but  why, 
sirrah,  are  those  ships  lying  down  there?"  he  roared. 

The  G.  V.  was  not  full  of  vain  knowledge. 

''I — I  really  don't  know,  Your  Majesty,"  he  said, 
soothingly.     "I  will  go  and  see." 

He  was  standing  near  the  door  and  dodged  as  he 
went  out.  He  did  not  come  back.  When  he  had  in- 
quired about  the  ships  he  decided  not  to  seek  Abdul 
himself,  but  to  send  a  man — a  cheap  man — to  tell 
him  about  it.  This  was  just  a  dull  fellow  with  not 
much  politeness  and  no  imagination. 

'*The  ships  are  there  by  the  order  of  the  Minister 
of  Marine,  Your  Majesty,"  he  said. 

Abdul  was  so  astonished  that  he  forgot  to  slay  the 
fellow. 

"Bring  the  Minister  of  Marine! "  he  gasped,  when  at 
last  he  could  catch  his  breath. 

The  Minister  of  Marine  came — a  new  minister — one 
of  the  Young  Turk  Party.  He  was  polite,  but  not 
upset  by  the  Sultan's  emotion.  When  Abdul  de- 
manded the  reason  why  the  old  ships  had  been  fur- 
bished up  and  brought  down  into  the  Bosporus,  he 
replied  that  they  were  there  by  his  orders,  and  added: 

"We  think  they  look  better  there.  Your  Majesty, 
as  in  the  old  days." 

"But,  by  the  beard  of  the  Prophet,  I  will  not  have 
them  there !     Take  them  away ! ' ' 

"Your  Majesty,  it  grieves  me  to  seem  discourteous, 
not  to  say  rude,  but  those  ships  are  to  remain  at  their 
present   anchorage.     It   grieves   me   still   further  to 

i86 


Looking  Down   on    Tildiz 


appear  to  be  firm,  not  to  say  harsh,  but  if  there  is  any 
show  of  resistance  in  this  neighborhood  they  have 
orders  to  open  fire  on  Your  Majesty's  palace." 

Abdul  took  a  chair  and  sat  down.  His  jaw  dropped, 
and  he  looked  at  the  Minister  of  Marine  a  good  while 
without  seeming  to  see  him.  Then  he  got  up  and 
tottered  over  to  the  window  and  gazed  out  on  those 
ships  lying  just  below,  on  the  Bosporus.  By-and-by, 
he  went  to  a  little  ornamental  table  and  took  a  pen 
and  some  paper  and  wrote  an  order  in  this  wise : 

Owing  to  my  declining  years  and  my  great  biirdens  of 
responsibility,  it  is  my  wish  that  in  future  all  matters  per- 
taining to  the  army  and  navy  be  under  the  supervision  of 
the  Secretary  of  War  and  the  Minister  of  Marine. 
Abdul  Hamid,  Kahn  II. 
Son  of  the  Prophet — Shadow  of  God,  etc.,  etc. 

At  all  events,  that  was  the  purport  of  it.  In 
reality,  it  was  a  succession  of  wriggly  marks  which 
only  a  Moslem  could  read.  Never  mind,  it  was  a 
graceful  surrender. 

There  is  a  wonderful  old  Moslem  cemetery  near 
Bulgurlu — one  of  the  largest  in  the  world  and  the 
most  thickly  planted.  It  is  favored  by  Moslems 
because  it  is  on  the  side  of  the  city  nearest  Mecca, 
and  they  are  lying  there  three  deep  and  have  over- 
flowed into  the  roads  and  byways.  Their  curiously 
shaped  and  elaborately  carved  headstones  stand  as 
thick  as  grain — some  of  them  crowned  with  fezzes — 
some  with  suns — all  of  them  covered  with  emblems 
and  poetry  and  passages  from  the  Koran.  They 
are  tumbled  this  way  and  that ;  they  are  lying  every- 

187 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


where  along  the  road;  they  have  been  built  into  the 
wayside  walls. 

I  wanted  to  carry  away  one  of  those  tombstones — 
one  of  the  old  ones — and  I  would  have  done  it  if  I 
had  known  enough  Moslem  to  corrupt  the  driver.  A 
thing  like  that  would  be  worth  st — adding  to  one's 
collection,  I  mean.  The  palace  was  full  of  great 
cypresses,  too — tall,  funereal  trees — wonderfully  im- 
pressive and  beautiful. 

We  drove  back  to  Skutari  and  there  saw  our  driver 
Suleiman  for  the  last  time.  I  had  already  tipped  him 
at  the  end  of  each  day,  but  I  suppose  he  expected 
something  rather  unusual  as  a  farewell  token.  Un- 
fortunately, I  was  low  in  fractional  currency.  I  scrap- 
ed together  all  I  had  left — a  few  piastres — and  handed 
them  to  him  and  turned  quickly  away.  There  came 
a  sudden  explosion  as  of  a  bomb.  I  did  not  look  to 
see  what  it  was — I  knew.  It  was  the  bursting  of 
Suleiman's  heart. 

Up  the  Golden  Horn  in  the  afternoon,  as  far  as  the 
Sweet  Waters  of  Europe.  It  is  a  beautiful  sail,  and 
there  is  a  mosque  where  the  ceremony  of  conferring 
the  sword  on  a  new  Sultan  is  performed ;  also,  a  fine 
view  across  the  Sweet  Waters,  with  Jewish  graveyards 
whitening  the  distant  hills.  But  there  was  nothing 
of  special  remark — we  being  a  little  tired  of  the  place 
by  this  time — except  the  homecoming. 

There  were  caiques  lying  about  the  little  steamer- 
landing  when  we  were  ready  to  return,  and  Laura  and 
I  decided  to  take  one  of  these  down  the  Horn  to  the 
ship.  The  caique  is  a  curiously  shaped  canoe-sort  of 
a  craft,  and  you  have  to  get  in  carefully  and  sit  still. 

i88 


WANTED    TO    CARRY    AWAY    ONE    OF   THOSE    TOMBSTONES 


13 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


But  once  in  and  seated,  it  moves  as  silently  and 
smoothly  as  a  gliding  star. 

It  was  sunset,  and  the  Golden  Horn  was  true  to  its 
name.  Ships  at  anchor,  barges  drifting  up  and  down, 
were  aglow  with  the  sheen  of  evening — ^the  water  a 
tawny,  molten  flood,  the  still  atmosphere  like  an  im- 
palpable dust  of  gold.  Caiques  carrying  merchants 
to  their  homes  somewhere  along  the  upper  shores 
were  burnished  with  the  aureate  hue.  Domes  and 
minarets  caught  and  reflected  the  wonder  of  it — ^the 
Galata  bridge  ahead  of  us  had  become  such  a  span 
as  might  link  the  shores  of  the  River  of  Peace. 

Once  more  Constantinople  was  a  dream  of  Paradise 
— a  vision  of  enchantment — a  city  of  illusion. 


XXII 

EPHESUS:   THE    CITY   THAT   WAS 

LIKE  Oriental  harbors  generally,  Smyrna  from  the 
-/  sea  has  a  magic  charm.  When  we  slowly  sailed 
down  a  long  reach  of  water  between  quiet  hills  and 
saw  the  ancient  city  rising  from  the  morning  mist, 
we  had  somehow  a  feeling  that  we  had  reached  a 
hitherto  undiscovered  port — a  mirage,  perhaps,  of 
some  necromancer's  spell. 

We  landed,  found  our  train,  and  went  joggling 
away  through  the  spring  landscape,  following  the 
old  highway  that  from  time  immemorial  has  led  from 
Ephesus  to  Smyrna— the  highway  which  long  ago 
St.  Paul  travelled,  and  St.  John,  too,  no  doubt,  and 
the  Virgin  Mary  and  Mary  Magdalen.  For  all  these 
journeyed  between  Ephesus  and  Smyrna  in  their 
time,  and  the  ancient  road  would  be  crowded  with 
countless  camel  trains  and  laden  donkeys  then;  also 
with  the  wheeled  vehicles  of  that  period — cars  and 
chariots  and  cages  of  wild  animals  for  the  games — 
and  there  would  be  elephants,  too,  gaudily  caparisoned, 
carrying  some  rich  potentate  of  the  East  and  his 
retinue — a  governor,  perhaps,  or  a  king.  It  was  a 
mighty  thoroughfare  in  those  older  days  and  may  be 
still,  though  it  is  no  longer  crowded,  and  we  did  not 
notice  any  kings. 

We  did  notice  some  Reprobates — the  ones  we  have 

191 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


always  with  us.  They  sat  just  across  the  aisle, 
engaged  in  their  usual  edifying  discussion  as  to  the 
identity  of  the  historic  sites  we  were  supposed  to 
be  passing.  Finally  they  got  into  a  particularly 
illuminating  dispute  as  to  the  period  of  St.  Paul's 
life  and  ministrations.  It  began  by  the  Apostle  (our 
Apostle)  casually  remarking  that  St.  Paul  had  lived 
about  twenty-one  hundred  years  ago. 

It  was  a  mild  remark — innocent  enough  in  its 
trifling  inaccuracy  of  two  or  three  centuries — ^but  it 
disturbed  the  Colonel,  who  has  fallen  into  the  guide- 
book habit,  and  is  set  up  with  the  knowledge 
thereof. 

''Look  here,"  he  said,  ''if  I  knew  as  little  as  you  do 
about  such  things  I'd  restrain  the  desire  to  give  out 
information  before  company." 

The  Apostle  was  undisturbed  by  this  sarcasm.  He 
folded  his  hands  across  his  comfortable  forward  ele- 
vation and  smiled  in  his  angel  way. 

"Oh,  you  think  so,"  he  said  placidly.  "Well,  you 
think  like  a  camel's  hump.  You  never  heard  of  St. 
Paul  till  you  started  on  this  trip.  I  used  to  study 
about  him  at  Sunday-school  when  a  mere  child." 

* '  Yes,  you  did !  as  a  child !  Why,  you  old  lobscouse ' ' 
(lobscouse  is  an  article  on  the  Kurfurst  bill  of  fare) 
"you  never  saw  the  inside  of  a  Sunday-school.  You 
heard  somebody  last  night  say  something  about 
twenty-one  hundred  years  ago,  and  with  your  genius 
for  getting  facts  mixed  you  saddled  that  date  on  St. 
Paul." 

The  Colonel  turned  for  corroboration  to  the  Horse- 
Doctor,  who  regarded  critically  the  outlines  of  the 

192 


Ephesus :    the  City  that  Was 


Apostle,  which  for  convenience  required  an  entire 
seat;    then,  speaking  thoughtfully: 

"It  isn't  worth  while  to  notice  the  remarks  of  a 
person  who  looks  like  that.  Why,  he's  all  malformed. 
He'll  probably  explode  before  we  reach  Ephesus." 

I  felt  sorry  for  the  Apostle,  and  was  going  over  to 
sit  with  him,  only  there  wasn't  room,  and  just  then 
somebody  noticed  a  camel  train — the  first  we  have 
seen — huge  creatures  heavily  loaded  and  plodding 
along  on  the  old  highway.  This  made  a  diversion. 
Then  there  was  another  camel  'train,  and  another. 
Then  came  a  string  of  donkeys — all  laden  with  the 
wares  of  the  East  going  to  Smyrna.  The  lagging 
Oriental  day  was  awake ;  the  old  road  was  still  alive, 
after  all. 

Like  the  first  "Innocents,"  we  had  brought  a  car- 
load or  so  of  donkeys — four-legged  donkeys — from 
Smyrna,  and  I  think  they  were  the  same  ones,  from 
their  looks.  They  were  aged  and  patchy,  and  they 
filled  the  bill  in  other  ways.  They  wrung  our  hearts 
with  their  sad,  patient  faces  and  their  decrepitude, 
and  they  exasperated  us  with  their  indifference  to 
our  desires. 

I  suppose  excursion  parties  look  pretty  much  alike, 
and  that  the  Quaker  City  pilgrims  forty-two  years  ago 
looked  a  good  deal  like  ours  as  we  strung  away  down 
the  valley  toward  the  ancient  city.  I  hope  they  did 
not  look  any  worse  than  ours.  To  see  long-legged 
men  and  stout  ladies  perched  on  the  backs  of  those 
tiny  asses,  in  rickety  saddles  that  feel  as  if  they  would 
slip-  (and  do  slip  if  one  is  not  careful) ,  may  be  diverting 
enough,  but  it  is  not  pretty.     If  the  donkey  stays  in 

193 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


the  middle  of  the  narrow,  worn  pathway,  it  is  very 
well;  but  if  he  goes  to  experimenting  and  wandering 
off  over  the  rocks,  then  look  out.  You  can't  steer 
him  with  the  single  remnant  of  rope  on  his  halter  (he 
has  no  bridle),  and  he  pitches  a  good  deal  when  he 
gets  off  his  course.  Being  a  tall  person,  I  was  closed 
up  like  a  grasshopper,  and  felt  fearfully  top-heavy. 
Laura,  age  fourteen,  kept  behind  me — commenting 
on  my  appearance  and  praying  for  my  overthrow. 

It  was  a  good  way  to  the  ruins — the  main  ruins — 
though  in  reality  there  were  ruins  everywhere:  old 
mosques,  gray  with  age  and  half -buried  in  the  soil — 
a  thousand  years  old,  but  young  compared  with  the 
more  ancient  city ;  crumbling  Roman  aqueducts  lead- 
ing away  to  the  mountains  —  old  even  before  the 
mosques  were  built,  but  still  new  when  Ephesus  was 
already  hoary  with  antiquity ;  broken  columns  stick- 
ing everywhere  out  of  the  weeds  and  grass — scarred, 
crumbling,  and  moss-grown,  though  still  not  of  that 
first,  far,  unrecorded  period. 

But  by-and-by  we  came  to  mighty  walls  of  stone — 
huge  abutments  rising  from  the  marshy  plain — and 
these  were  really  old.  The  Phoenicians  may  have 
laid  them  in  some  far-off  time,  but  tradition  goes  still 
farther  back  and  declares  they  were  laid  by  giants — 
the  one-eyed  kind,  the  Cyclops — when  all  this  marsh 
was  sea.  These  huge  abutments  were  piers  in  that 
ancient  day.  A  blue  harbor  washed  them,  and  the 
merchant  ships  of  mighty  Ephesus  lay  alongside  and 
loaded  for  every  port. 

That  was  a  long  time  ago.  Nobody  can  say  when 
these  stone  piers  were  built,  but  Diana  and  Apollo 

194 


Ephesus:    the  City  that  Was 


were  both  bom  in  Ephesus,  and  there  was  probably  a 
city  here  even  then.  What  we  know  is  that  by  the  be- 
ginning of  the  Christian  era  Ephesus  was  a  metropo- 
lis with  a  temple  so  amazing,  a  theatre  so  vast  and 
a  library  so  beautiful  that  we  stand  amid  the  desola- 
tion to-day,  helplessly  trying  to  reconstruct  the  pro- 
portions of  a  community  which  could  require  these 
things;  could  build  them  and  then  vanish  utterly, 
leaving  not  a  living  trace  behind. 

For  nobody  to-day  lives  in  Ephesus — not  a  soul. 
A  wandering  shepherd  may  build  his  camp-fire  here, 
or  an  Arab  who  is  tilling  a  bit  of  ground;  but  his 
home  will  be  in  Ayasaluk,  several  miles  away,  not 
here.  Once  the  greatest  port  of  trade  in  western 
Asia,  Ephesus  is  voiceless  and  vacant  now,  except 
when  a  party  like  ours  comes  to  disturb  its  solitude 
and  trample  among  its  forlorn  glories. 

There  is  no  lack  of  knowledge  concerning  certain 
of  the  structures  here — the  more  recent  ones,  we  may 
call  them,  though  they  were  built  two  thousand  years 
ago.  There  are  descriptions  everywhere,  and  some 
of  them  are  as  cleanly  cut  to-day  as  they  were  when 
the  tool  left  them.  This  library  was  built  in  honor 
of  Augustus  Caesar  and  Livia,  and  it  must  have  been 
a  veritable  marble  vision.  Here  in  its  comers  the 
old  students  sat  and  pored  over  books  and  precious 
documents  that  filled  these  crumbling  recesses  and 
the  long-vanished  shelves.  St.  Paul  doubtless  came 
here  to  study  during  the  three  years  of  his  residence, 
and  before  him  St.  John,  for  he  wrote  his  gospel  in 
Ephesus,  and  would  be  likely  to  seek  out  the  place  of 
books.     And  Mary  would  walk  with  him  to  the  door 

195 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


sometimes,  I  think,  and  Mary  of  Magdala,  for  these 
three  passed  their  final  days  in  Ephesus,  and  would 
be  drawn  close  together  by  their  sacred  bond. 

The  great  theatre  where  St.  Paul  battled  with  the 
wild  beasts  stands  just  across  the  way.  It  seated 
twenty-five  thousand,  and  its  stone  benches  stretch 
upward  to  the  sky.  The  steep  marble  flight  that 
carries  you  from  tier  to  tier  is  there  to-day  exactly 
as  when  troops  of  fair  ladies  and  handsome  beaux 
climbed  up  and  still  up  to  find  their  places  from  which 
to  look  down  on  the  play  or  the  gladiatorial  combat 
or  the  massacre  of  the  Christians  in  the  arena  below. 

These  old  theatres  were  built  in  a  semicircle  dug 
out  of  the  mountain-side,  so  that  the  seats  were  solid 
against  the  ground  and  rose  one  above  the  other  with 
the  slope  of  the  hill,  which  gave  everybody  a  good 
view.  There  were  no  columns  to  interfere  with  one's 
vision,  for  there  was  no  roof  to  be  supported,  except, 
perhaps,  over  the  stage,  but  the  top  seats  were  so 
remote  from  the  arena  and  the  proscenium  that  the 
players  must  have  seemed  miniatures.  Yet  even  above 
these  there  was  still  mountain-side,  and  little  boys 
who  could  not  get  money  for  an  entrance  fee  or  carry 
water  to  the  animals  for  a  ticket  sat  up  in  that  far 
perch,  no  doubt,  and  looked  down  and  shouted  at  the 
show. 

Laura  and  I,  who,  as  usual,  had  dropped  behind 
the  party,  climbed  far  up  among  the  seats  and  tried  to 
imagine  we  had  come  to  the  afternoon  performance — 
had  come  early,  not  to  miss  any  of  it.  But  it  was 
difficult,  even  when  we  shut  our  eyes.  Weeds  and 
grass  grew  everywhere  in   the  crevices;  dandelions 

196 


Ephesus:    the  City  that  Was 


bloomed  and  briers  tangled  where  sat  the  beaux  and 
belles  of  twenty  centuries  ago.  Just  here  at  our  feet 
the  mobs  of  Demetrius  the  silversmith  gathered,  cry- 
ing, '*  Great  is  Diana  of  the  Ephesians!"  because  the 
religion  of  St.'  Paul  was  spoiling  their  trade  for  minia- 
ture temples.  Down  there  in  the  arena  Paul  did 
battle  with  the  beasts,  very  likely  as  punishment. 
This  is  the  spot — these  are  the  very  benches — but 
we  cannot  see  the  picture :  we  cannot  wake  the  tread 
of  the  vanished  years. 

Behind  the  arena  are  the  columns  that  support  the 
stage,  and  back  of  these  are  the  dressing-rooms,  their 
marble  walls  as  solid  and  perfect  to-day  as  when  the 
ancient  players  dallied  and  gossiped  there.  At  one 
end  is  a  dark,  cave-like  place  where  we  thought  the 
wild  beasts  might  have  been  kept.  I  stood  at  the 
entrance  and  Laura  made  my  picture,  but  she  com- 
plained that  I  did  not  look  fierce  enough  for  hef  pur- 
pose. 

On  another  slope  of  the  hill  a  smaller  theatre,  the 
Odeon,  has  recently  been  uncovered.  A  gem  of 
beauty  it  was,  and  much  of  its  wonder  is  still  pre- 
served. Here  the  singers  of  a  forgotten  time  gave 
forth  their  melody  to  a  group  of  music-lovers,  gathered 
in  this  close  circle  of  seats  that  not  a  note  or  shading 
might  be  lost. 

We  passed  around  this  dainty  playhouse,  across  a 
little  wheat-field  that  some  peasant  has  planted 
against  its  very  walls,  on  up  the  hill,  scrambling 
along  steep  declivities  over  its  brow,  and,  behold! 
we  came  out  high  above  the  great  theatre  on  the  other 
side,  and  all  the  plain  and  slopes  of  the  old  city,  with 

197 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


its  white  fragments  and  its  poor  ruined  harbor,  lay  at 
our  feet.  Earthquakes  shook  the  city  down  and  filled 
up  the  splendid  harbor.  If  the  harbor  had  been  spared 
the  city  would  have  been  rebuilt.  Instead,  the  harbor 
is  a  marsh,  the  city  a  memory. 

From  where  we  stood  we  could  survey  the  sweep  of 
the  vanished  city.  We  could  look  across  into  the 
library  and  the  market-place  and  follow  a  marble  road 
— its  white  blocks  worn  smooth  by  a  million  treading 
feet — where  it  stretched  away  toward  the  sea.  And 
once  more  we  tried  to  conjure  the  vision  of  the  past — 
to  close  our  eyes  and  reproduce  the  vanished  day. 
And  once  more  we  failed.  We  could  glimpse  a  picture, 
we  could  construct  a  city,  but  it  was  never  quite 
that  city — never  quite  in  that  place.  Our  harbor  with 
its  white  sails  and  thronging  wharves  was  never  quite 
that  harbor — our  crowded  streets  were  never  quite 
those  streets.  Here  were  just  ruins — always  ruins — 
they  could  never  have  been  anything  but  ruins. 
Perhaps  our  imaginations  were  not  in  good  working 
order. 

We  descended  again  into  the  great  theatre,  for  it 
fascinated  us,  nearly  breaking  our  necks  where  vines 
and  briers  tangled,  pausing  every  other  minute  to 
rest  and  consider  and  dream.  Pawing  over  a  heap 
of  rubbish — odd  bits  of  carving,  inscriptions,  and  the 
like — ^the  place  is  a  treasure-trove  of  such  things — I 
found  a  little  marble  torso  of  a  female  figure.  Head 
and  arms  and  the  lower  part  of  the  body  all  gone, 
but  what  remained  was  exquisite  beyond  words  —  a 
gem,  even  though  rubbish,  in  Ephesus. 

Now,  of  course,  the  reader  is  an  honest  person.     He 


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Ephesus :    the  City  that  Was 


would  have  said,  as  I  did:  "No,  it  does  not  matter, 
rubbish  or  no  rubbish,  it  is  not  mine.  It  belongs  to 
the  government — I  cannot  steal.  Besides,  there  is 
Laura,  age  fourteen:  I  cannot  set  her  a  bad  example. 
Also,  there  are  the  police.  No,  my  conscience  is  per- 
fect;  I  cannot  do  it." 

I  know  the  reader  would  have  reflected  thus,  and  so 
did  I,  as  stated.  Then  I  found  I  could  crowd  it  into 
my  inside  coat-pocket,  and  that  by  cramming  my 
handkerchief  carefully  on  top  of  it,  it  did  not  distress 
me  so  much,  especially  when  I  gave  it  a  little  support 
with  my  forearm,  to  make  it  swing  in  a  natural  way. 
But  when  I  remembered  that  the  Quaker  City  pil- 
grims had  been  searched  on  leaving  Ephesus,  my  con- 
science began  to  harass  me  again,  though  not  enough 
as  yet  to  make  me  disgorge. 

Our  party  had  all  trailed  back  to  the  hotel  when  we 
got  to  our  donkeys,  and  it  was  beginning  to  sprinkle 
rain.  The  sky  was  overcast  and  a  quiet  had  settled 
among  the  ruins.  When  our  donkey-driver  gave  me  a 
sharp  look  I  began  to  suffer.  I  thought  he  was  a  spy, 
and  had  his  eye  on  that  pocket.  I  recalled  now  that 
I  had  always  had  a  tender  conscience;  it  seemed 
unwise  to  torture  it  in  this  way. 

I  began  to  think  of  ways  to  ease  it.  I  thought 
five  francs  might  do  it,  so  far  as  our  donkey-boy  was 
concerned.  But  then  there  was  the  official  search 
at  the  other  end;  that,  of  course,  would  be  a  public 
matter,  and  the  five  francs  would  be  wasted.  I  was 
almost  persuaded  to  drop  the  little  torso  quietly  by 
the  roadside — it  discomforted  me  so. 

We  rode  along  rather  quietly,  and  I  spoke  improv- 

199 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


ingly  to  Laura  of  how  St.  Paul  had  travelled  over  this 
very  road  when  he  was  making  his  good  fight,  and  of 
several  other  saints  and  their  works,  and  how  Ephesus 
had  probably  been  destroyed  because  of  its  sinfulness. 
Near  a  crumbling  arch  a  flock  of  sheep  grazed,  herded 
by  a  shepherd  who  had  been  there  when  the  apostles 
came — at  least  his  cape  had,  and  his  hat — and  every- 
thing about  him  was  Biblical  and  holylike,  and  so 
were  the  gentle  rain  and  the  donkeys,  and  I  said  how 
sweet  and  soothing  it  all  was;  after  which  I  began 
to  reflect  on  what  would  be  proper  to  do  if  anything 
resembling  an  emergency  should  conclude  our  peaceful 
ride.  I  decided  that,  as  we  had  just  come  from 
Smyrna,  I  had  bought  the  bit  of  heathen  marble  on 
the  way  to  the  station.  That  was  simple  and  straight- 
forward, and  I  felt  a  good  deal  strengthened  as  I 
practised  it  over  and  tried  it  on  Laura  as  we  rode 
along.  The  Kurfiirsters  had  been  with  me  and  would 
stand  by  the  statement — any  Kurfilrster  would  do 
that  whether  he  flocked  with  the  forward-cabin  crowd 
or  the  unregenerates  of  the  booze-bazaar.  I  felt  reas- 
sured and  whistled  a  little,  and  then  from  the  road- 
side a  man  rose  up  and  said  something  sharp  to  our 
donkey-driver.  It  was  sudden,  and  I  suppose  I  did 
jump  a  little,  but  I  was  ready  for  him. 

"No,"  I  said,  "I  didn't  steal  it.  I  bought  it  in 
Smyrna  on  the  way  to  the  train.  I  can  prove  it  by 
Laura  here,  and  the  other  passengers.  We  are  in- 
corruptible.    Go  in  peace." 

But  it  was  wasted.  This  creature  had  business  only 
with  our  donkey -driver  and  his  tobacco.  He  didn't 
understand  a  word  I  said. 

200 


Ephesus :   the  City  that  Was 


We  rode  amid  a  very  garden  of  fragmentary  ruins. 
Precious  blocks  of  fluted  marble,  rich  with  carving 
and  inscriptions,  lay  everywhere.  We  were  confront- 
ed by  gems  of  sculpture  and  graven  history  at  every 
turn.  Yet  here  I  was,  suffering  over  a  little  scrap 
the  size  of  one's  fist.  No  conscience  should  be  as 
sensitive  as  that. 

Suddenly  a  regular  bundle  of  firearms — a  human 
arsenal — stepped  out  of  a  shed  into  the  middle  of  the 
road  and  began  a  harangue.  I  could  feel  my  hair 
turning  gray. 

"You  are  wholly  in  error,"  I  said.  **I  bought  it  in 
Smyrna.  All  the  passengers  saw  me.  Still,  I  will 
give  it  up  if  you  say  so." 

But  that  was  wasted,  too.  He  only  took  the  rest 
of  our  driver's  tobacco  and  let  us  pass.  We  met  a 
little  puny  calf  next,  standing  shrunken  and  forlorn 
in  the  drizzle,  but  not  too  shrunken  and  friendless  to 
have  a  string  of  blue  beads  around  his  neck  to  avert 
the  evil  eye.  I  was  inclined  to  take  them  away  from 
him  and  put  them  on  myself. 

We  were  opposite  the  Temple  of  Diana  by  this  time 
— all  that  is  left  of  what  was  once  one  of  the  seven 
wonders  of  the  world.  It  is  only  some  broken  stones 
sinking  into  a  marsh  now,  but  it  was  a  marvel  in  its 
time,  and  I  remembered  how  one  Herostratus,  ages 
ago,  had  fired  it  to  perpetuate  his  name — also  how  the 
Ephesians  had  snuffed  out  Herostratus,  and  issued  a 
decree  that  his  name  should  never  again  be  mentioned 
on  pain  of  severe  punishment;  which  was  a  mistake,  of 
course,  for  it  advertised  Herostratus  into  the  coveted 
immortality.     I  wonder  what  kind  of  a  mistake  the 

20I 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


Ephesians  would  make  when  they  found  that  bit  of 
marble  on  my  person,  and  what  kind  of  advertising  I 
would  get. 

We  were  almost  to  the  little  hotel  now,  and,  lo! 
right  at  the  gates  we  were  confronted  by  a  file  of  men 
with  muskets.  Here  it  was,  then,  at  last.  My  moral 
joints  turned  to  water. 

'  *  I  didn't  do  it,  gentlemen, ' '  I  said.  ' '  I  am  without 
a  flaw.  It  was  Laura — you  can  see  for  yourself  she 
looks  guilty." 

But  they  did  not  search  Laura.  They  did  not  even 
search  me.  They  merely  looked  us  over  and  talked 
about  us  in  strange  tongues.  We  reached  the  shelter 
of  the  hotel  and  the  comfort  of  food  in  safety.  Neither 
did  they  inspect  us  at  the  station,  and  as  we  glided 
back  to  Smyrna  I  impressed  upon  Laura  the  value 
of  keeping  one's  conscience  clear,  and  how  one  is 
always  rewarded  with  torsos  and  things  for  pursuing 
a  straightforward,  simple  course  through  life. 

I  suppose  a  man  could  take  away  marble  from 
Ephesus  to-day  by  the  wagon-load  if  he  had  any  place 
to  take  it  to.  Nobody  is  excavating  there — nobody 
seems  to  care  for  it,  and  never  was  such  a  mine  of 
relics  under  the  sun.  At  Ayasaluk,  the  Arab  village, 
priceless  treasures  of  carving  and  inscription  look  out 
at  you  from  the  wall  of  every  peasant's  hut  and  stable 
— from  the  tumbling  stone  fences  that  divide  their 
fields.  Wonderful  columns  stick  out  of  every  bank 
and  heap  of  earth.  Precious  marbles  and  porphyry 
mingle  with  the  very  macadam  of  the  roads.  Rare 
pieces  are  sold  around  the  hotel  for  a  few  piastres. 

Remember,  a   mighty  marble  city  perished  here. 

202 


Ephesus :    the  City    that  Was 


Earthquakes  shook  it  down,  shattered  the  walls  of 
its  temples,  overthrew  the  statuary,  tumbled  the 
inscriptions  in  the  dust.  The  ages  have  spread  a 
layer  of  earth  upon  the  ruin,  but  only  partially  covered 
it.  Just  beneath  the  shallow  plough  of  the  peasant 
lie  riches  uncountable  for  the  nation  that  shall  bring 
them  to  the  light  of  day.  Historical  societies  dig 
a  little  here  and  there,  and  have  done  noble  work. 
But  their  means  run  low  before  they  can  make  any 
real  beginning  on  the  mighty  task.  Ephesus  is  still 
a  buried  city. 

The  day  will  come  when  Ephesus  will  be  restored 
to  her  former  greatness.  It  will  take  an  earthquake 
to  do  it,  but  the  spirit  of  prophecy  is  upon  me  and  I 
foresee  that  earthquake.  The  future  is  very  long — 
I  am  in  no  hurry — fulfilment  may  take  its  time.  I 
merely  want  to  get  my  prophecy  in  now  and  registered, 
so  when  the  event  comes  along  I  shall  get  proper  credit. 
Some  day  an  earthquake  will  strike  Ephesus  again; 
the  bottom  will  drop  out  of  that  swamp  and  make  it 
a  harbor  once  more;  ships  will  sail  in  as  in  the  old 
days,  and  Ephesus,  like  Athens,  will  renew  her  glory. 

Back  to  Smyrna — a  modern  city  and  beautiful  from 
any  high  vantage,  with  its  red-tiled  roofs,  its  domes 
and  minarets,  its  graceful  cypress-trees,  its  picture 
hillsides,  and  its  cobalt  sky.  It  is  clean,  too,  compared 
with  Constantinople.  To  be  sure,  Smyrna  has  its 
ruins  and  its  historic  interest,  with  the  tomb  of  Poly- 
carp  the  martyr,  who  was  Bishop  of  Smyrna  in  the 
second  century,  and  died  for  his  faith  at  the  age  of 
eighty-six.     He  was  burned  on  a  hill  just  outside  the 

203 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


city  on  the  Ephesus  road,  and  his  tomb,  guarded  by 
two  noble  cypresses,  overlooks  the  sea. 

But  it  is  busy,  bustling  Smyrna  that,  after  Ephesus, 
most  attracted  us.  It  is  more  truly  the  Orient  than 
anything  we  have  seen.  Fully  as  picturesque  as 
Constantinople  in  costume,  it  is  brighter,  fresher, 
healthier-looking,  and,  more  than  all,  its  crowded 
streets  are  perpetually  full  of  mighty  camel  trains 
swinging  in  from  the  deeper  East,  loaded  with  all  the 
wares  and  fabrics  of  our  dreams.  Those  camels  are 
monstrously  large — ^twice  the  size  of  any  circus  camels 
that  come  to  America,  and  with  their  great  panniers 
they  fill  an  Oriental  street  from  side  to  side. 

They  move,  too,  and  other  things  had  better  keep 
out  of  the  way  when  a  camel  train  heaves  in  sight  if 
they  want  to  remain  undamaged .  I  was  examining  some 
things  outside  of  a  bazaar  when  suddenly  I  thought 
I  had  been  hit  by  a  planet.  I  thought  so  because  of 
the  positive  manner  of  my  disaster  and  the  number 
of  constellations  I  saw.  But  it  was  only  one  side  of 
a  loaded  camel  that  had  annihilated  me,  and  the  camel 
was  moving  straight  ahead  without  the  slightest 
notion  that  anything  had  interfered  with  its  progress. 

It  hadn't,  as  a  matter  of  fact.  Nothing  short  of 
a  stone  wall  interrupts  a  camel — a  Smyrna  camel — 
when  he's  out  for  business  and  under  a  full  head  of 
steam.  Vehicles  and  other  things  turn  down  another 
street  when  there  is  a  camel  train  coming.  You  may 
squat  down,  as  these  Orientals  do,  and  get  below  the 
danger  line,  for  a  camel  is  not  likely  to  step  on  you, 
but  his  load  is  another  matter — you  must  look  out  for 
that  yourself. 

204 


Ephesus :    the  City  that    Was 


I  was  fascinated  by  the  camel  trains;  they  are  a 
part  of  the  East  I  hardly  expected  to  find.  I  thought 
their  day  was  about  over.  Nothing  of  the  sort.  The 
camel  trains,  in  fact,  own  Smyrna,  and  give  it  its 
commercial  importance.  They  bring  the  great  bulk 
of  merchandise — rugs,  mattings,  nuts,  dried  fruits, 
spices,  and  all  the  rare  native  handiwork  from  far  dim 
interiors  that  railroads  will  not  reach  in  a  hundred 
years.  They  come  swinging  out  of  Kurdistan — from 
Ispahan  and  from  Khiva;  they  cross  the  burning 
desert  of  Kara  Koom. 

A  camel  train  can  run  cheaper  than  the  railway 
kind.  A  railway  requires  coal  and  wood  for  fuel.  A 
camel  would  like  those  things  also.  But  he  is  not 
particular — he  will  accept  whatever  comes  along.  He 
will  eat  anything  a  goat  can,  and  he  would  eat  the 
goat,  too,  if  permitted — horns  and  all.  Consequently, 
he  arrives  at  Smyrna  fit  and  well  fed,  ready  for  the 
thousand  miles  or  so  of  return  trip  at  a  moment's 
notice. 

They  run  these  camel  trains  in  sections — about  six 
camels  in  each.  An  Arab  mounted  on  a  donkey  that 
wears  a  string  of  blue  beads  for  luck  leads  each  section, 
and  the  forward  camel  wears  against  his  shoulder 
a  bell.  It  is  a  musical  compound  affair  —  one  bell 
inside  the  other  with  a  blue  bead  in  the  last  one  to 
keep  off  the  evil  eye.  I  had  already  acquired  some  of 
the  blue  strings  of  donkey  beads,  and  I  made  up  my 
mind  now  to  have  a  camel  bell. 

By-and-by,  at  the  entrance  of  a  bazaar,  I  saw  one. 
It  was  an  old  one — worn  with  years  of  chafing  against 
the  shoulder  muscle  of  many  a  camel  that  had  followed 
14  205 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


the  long  track  from  the  heart  of  Asia  over  swamp  and 
steep  and  across  burning  sands.  At  the  base  of  the 
outer  bell  was  a  band  of  Arabic  characters — prayers, 
no  doubt,  from  the  Koran,  for  the  safety  of  the  cara- 
van.    I  would  never  leave  Smyrna  without  that  bell. 

However,  one  must  be  cautious.  I  gave  it  an  in- 
different jingle  as  I  passed  in  and  began  to  examine 
other  things.  A  murmuring,  insinuating  Moslem  was 
at  my  elbow  pushing  forward  the  gaudy  bits  of 
embroidery  and  cheaply  chased  weapons  in  which  I 
pretended  an  interest.  I  dallied  and  priced,  and  he 
grew  weary  and  discouraged.  Finally,  hesitating  at  the 
doorway,  I  touched  the  bell  again,  scarcely  noticing  it. 

''How  much?" 

* '  Sixtin  franc — very  chip. ' ' 

My  impulse  was  to  fling  the  money  at  him  and  grab 
the  treasure  before  he  changed  his  mind.  But  we  do 
not  do  these  things-^ — ^not  any  more — we  have  acquired 
education.  Besides,  we  have  grown  professionally 
proud  of  our  bargains. 

"Ho!  Sixteen  francs!  You  mean  six  francs — I 
give  you  five." 

**No — ^no — sixtin  franc — sixtin!  What  you  think? 
Here — fine!"  He  had  the  precious  thing  down  and 
was  jingling  it.  Its  music  fairly  enthralled  me.  But 
I  refused  to  take  it  in  my  hands — if  I  did  I  should  sur- 
render. ''See,"  he  continued,  pointing  to  the  in- 
scription. "Oh,  be-eautiful.  Here,  fiftin  franc — 
three  dollar!" 

He  pushed  it  toward  me.  I  pretended  to  be  inter- 
ested in  a  wretchedly  new  and  cheaply  woven  rug.  I 
had  to,  to  keep  steadfast.     I  waved  him  off. 

206 


Ephesus:    the  City   that  Was 


*'No — no;    five  francs — no  more!" 

He  hung  up  the  bell  and  I  started  to  go.  He  seized 
it  and  ran  after  me. 

"Here,  mister — fourtin  franc — ^give  me!" 

**Five  francs! — no  more." 

''No,  no,  mister — twelve  franc — las'  price — ver'  las' 
price.     Here,  see!" 

He  jingled  the  bell  a  little.  If  he  did  that  once 
more  I  was  gone  at  any  price. 

''Five  francs,''  I  said,  with  heavy  decision.  "I'll 
give  you  five  francs  for  it — no  more." 

I  faced  resolutely  around — as  resolutely  as  I  could — 
and  pretended  really  to  start. 

"Here,  mister — ten  franc — ten!     Mister — mister!" 

He  followed  me,  but  fortunately  he  had  hung  up  the 
bell  and  couldn't  jingle  it.  I  was  at  least  two  steps 
away. 

"Eight  franc,  mister  —  please  —  I  lose  money  —  I 
make  nothing — mister — seven!  seven  franc!" 

"Five — five  francs."  I  called  it  back  over  my 
shoulder — indifferently. 

"Mister!   mister!     Six!   six  franc!'* 

Confound  him !  He  got  hold  of  that  bell  again  and 
gave  it  a  jingle.  I  handed  him  the  six  francs.  If  he 
had  only  left  it  alone,  I  think  I  could  have  held  out. 

Still,  as  I  look  at  it  now,  hanging  here  in  my  state- 
room, and  think  of  the  long  lonely  nights  and  the 
days  of  sun  and  storm  it  has  seen,  of  the  far  journeys 
it  has  travelled  in  its  weary  way  down  the  years  to 
me,  I  do  not  so  much  mind  that  final  franc  after  all. 


XXIII 

INTO    SYRIA 

I  PICKED  up  a  cold  that  rainy  day  at  Ephesus. 
Not  an  ordinary  sniffling  cold,  but  a  wrenching, 
racking  cold  that  made  every  bone  and  every  tooth 
jump,  and  set  my  eyes  to  throbbing  like  the  ship's 
engines.  I  felt  sure  I  was  going  to  die  when  we  arrived 
in  the  harbor  of  Beirut,  and  decided  that  it  would  be 
better  to  die  on  deck;  so  I  crawled  out  and  dressed, 
and  crept  into  a  steamer-chair,  and  tried  to  appreciate 
the  beautiful  city  that  had  arisen  out  of  the  sea — ^the 
upper  gateway  to  Syria. 

The  Patriarch  came  along,  highly  elate.  This  was 
where  he  belonged ;  this  was  home ;  this  was  Phoenicia 
itself!  Fifteen  hundred  years  B.C.  Beirut  had  been  a 
great  Phoenician  seaport,  he  said,  and  most  of  the 
rare  handiwork  mentioned  in  ancient  history  and 
mythology  had  been  wrought  in  this  neighborhood. 
The  silver  vase  of  Achilles,  the  garment  which  Hecuba 
gave  to  Minerva,  and  the  gold-edged  bowl  of  Telema- 
chus  were  all  Phoenician,  according  to  the  Patriarch, 
who  hinted  that  he  rather  hoped  to  find  some  such 
things  at  Beirut ;  also  some  of  the  celebrated  Phoinus, 
or  purple  dye,  which  gave  the  tribe  its  name.  I  said 
no  doubt  he  would,  and,  being  sick  and  suffering, 
added  that  he  might  dye  himself  dead  for  all  I 
cared,  which  was  a    poor   joke  —  besides   being   an 

208 


Into  Syria 


afterthought,  when  the  Patriarch  was  well  out  of 
range. 

I  had  no  idea  of  going  ashore.  I  was  miserably 
sorry,  too,  for  I  was  stuffed  with  guide-book  know- 
ledge about  Baalbec  and  Damascus,  and  had  looked 
forward  to  that  side-trip  from  the  beginning.  I  knew 
how  Moses  felt  on  Mount  Pisgah  now,  and  I  was 
getting  so  sorry  for  myself  I  could  hardly  stand  it, 
when  suddenly  the  bugle  blew  the  sharp  call,  **A11 
ashore!"  Laura,  age  fourteen,  came  racing  down 
the  deck,  and  before  I  knew  it  I  had  my  bag — packed 
the  night  before — and  was  going  down  the  ship's 
ladder  into  a  boat,  quarrelling  meantime  with  one  of 
the  Reprobates  as  to  whether  Beirut  was  the  Berothai 
of  the  Old  Testament,  where  David  smote  Hadadezer 
and  took  "exceeding  much  brass,"  or  the  Berytus 
of  the  Roman  conquest.  It  was  of  no  consequence, 
but  it  gave  life  a  new  purpose,  for  I  wanted  to  prove 
that  he  was  wrong.  Wherefore  I  forgot  I  was  going 
to  die,  and  presently  we  were  ashore  and  in  a  railway- 
station  where  there  was  a  contiguous  little  train  ready 
to  start  for  Baalbec  and  Damascus,  with  a  lot  of  men 
selling  oranges,  of  which  Laura  and  I  bought  a  basket- 
ful for  a  franc,  climbed  aboard,  the  bell  rang  —  and 
the  funeral  was  postponed. 

The  road  followed  the  sea  for  a  distance,  and  led 
through  fields  of  flowers.  I  had  never  seen  wild- 
fiowers  like  those.  They  were  the  crimson  anemone 
mingled  riotously  with  a  gorgeous  yellow  flower — I 
did  not  learn  its  name.  The  ground  was  literally 
massed  with  them.  Never  was  such  a  prodigality 
of  bloom. 

209 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


From  Beirut  to  Baalbec  is  only  about  sixty  miles; 
but  it  takes  pretty  much  all  day  to  get  there,  for  the 
Lebanon  Mountains  lie  between,  and  this  is  a  delib- 
erate land.  We  did  not  mind.  There  was  plenty  to 
see  all  along,  and  our  leisurely  train  gave  us  ample 
time. 

There  were  the  little  stations,  where  we  stopped 
anywhere  from  five  to  fifteen  minutes,  and  got  out 
and  mingled  with  the  curious  rural  life;  there  were 
the  hills,  that  had  little  soil  on  them,  but  were  terraced 
and  fruitful — some  of  them  to  the  very  summit; 
there  was  the  old  Damascus  road,  winding  with  us, 
or  above  us,  or  below  us — ^the  road  over  which  Abra- 
ham may  have  travelled,  and  Adam,  too,  for  that 
matter,  and  Eve,  when  they  were  sent  out  of  their 
happy  garden.  Eden  lay  not  far  from  here,  and  the 
exiles  would  be  likely  to  come  this  way,  I  think.  We 
saw  plenty  of  groups  that  might  have  been  Abraham 
and  his  household,  or  any  of  the  patriarchs.  I  did 
not  notice  any  that  suggested  Adam  and  Eve. 

The  road  had  another  interest  for  me.  Forty-two 
years  ago,  before  the  railroad  came  this  way,  the 
Quaker  City  pilgrims  toiled  up  through  the  summer 
heat,  setting  out  on  the  "long  trip"  through  the  full 
length  of  Palestine.  Nobody  makes  it  in  summer 
now.  Few  make  it  at  all,  except  by  rail  and  in  car- 
riages, with  good  hostelries  at  the  end  of  every  stage. 
Still,  I  am  glad  those  first  pilgrims  made  it,  or  we 
should  not  have  had  that  wonderful  picture  of  Syrian 
summer  -  time ,  nor  of  * '  Jericho ' '  and  ' '  Baalbec . ' ' 
Those  two  horses  are  worth  knowing — in  literature — 
and  I  tried  to  imagine  that  little  early  party  of  ex- 

2IO 


Into  Syria 


cursionists  climbing  the  steep  path  to  Palestine  on 
their  sorry  nags. 

It  is  warm  in  Syria,  even  now,  but  we  were  not  too 
warm,  riding;  besides,  we  were  going  steadily  uphill, 
and  by-and-by  somebody  pointed  out  a  white  streak 
along  the  mountain-top,  and  it  was  snow.  Then,  after 
a  long  time,  we  got  to  a  place  where  the  vegetation 
was  very  scanty  and  there  were  no  more  terraced  hills, 
but  only  barren  peaks  and  sand,  where  the  wind  blew 
cold  and  colder,  and  presently  the  snow  lay  right 
along  our  way.  We  had  reached  the  highest  point 
then — five  thousand  feet  above  the  sea.  In  five  hours 
we  had  come  thirty-six  miles — ^thirty-five  in  length 
and  one  straight  up  in  the  air.     Somebody  said: 

"Look,  there  is  Mount  Hermon!" 

And,  sure  enough,  away  to  the  south,  though  nigh 
upon  us  it  seemed — so  close  that  one  might  put  out 
his  hand  and  touch  it,  almost — ^there  rose  a  stately, 
snow-clad  elevation  which,  once  seen,  dominated  the 
barren  landscape.  It  w^as  so  pure  white  against  the 
blue — so  impressive  in  its  massive  dignity — the  eye 
followed  it  across  every  vista,  longed  for  it  when 
immediate  peaks  rose  between,  welcomed  it  when  time 
after  time  it  rose  grandly  into  view. 

With  an  altitude  of  between  nine  and  ten  thousand 
feet,  Mount  Hermon  is  the  highest  mountain  in  Syria, 
I  believe — certainly  the  most  important.  The  Bible 
is  full  of  it.  The  Amorites  and  the  Hivites,  and  most 
of  the  other  tribes  that  Joshua  buried  or  persuaded 
to  go  away,  had  their  lands  under  Mount  Hermon 
(all  of  them  in  sight  of  it),  and  that  grand  old  hill 
looked  down  on  Joshua's  slaughter  of  men  and  women 

211 


The   Ship-Dwellers 


and  little  children,  and  perhaps  thought  it  a  puny 
performance  to  be  undertaken  in  the  name,  and  by 
the  direction,  of  God. 

Joshua  established  Mount  Hermon  as  the  northern 
boundary  of  Palestine,  and  from  whatever  point  the 
Israelite  turned  his  face  northward,  he  saw  its  white 
summit  against  the  blue.  It  became  symbolic  of 
grandeur,  stability,  purity,  and  peace.  It  was  to 
one  of  its  three  peaks  that  Christ  came  when,  with 
Peter,  James,  and  John,  He  withdrew  to  "an  high 
mountain  apart"  for  the  Transfiguration.  So  it 
became  sanctified  as  a  sort  of  holy  judgment- seat.* 

Down  the  Lebanon  slope  and  across  the  valley  to 
Reyak,  a  Syrian  village  in  the  sand,  at  the  foot  of  the 
Anti-Lebanon  range.  Reyak  is  the  parting  of  the 
ways — the  railways  —  that  lead  to  Damascus  and 
Baalbec,  and  there  is  a  lunch-room  there — a  good  one 
by  Turkish  standards.  It  was  our  first  complete  intro- 
duction to  Turkish  food — ^that  is  a  diet  of  nuts,  dates, 
oranges,  and  curious  meat  and  vegetable  preparations 
— and  I  ate  a  good  deal  for  a  dying  man.  Then  I 
went  outside  to  look  at  the  population,  and  wonder 
what  these  people,  who  scratch  a  living  out  of  the 
sand  and  stone  barrens,  would  do  in  a  fertile  country 
like  America .  They  would  consider  it  heaven ,  I  thought . 

At  the  end  of  the  station  sat  a  drowsy,  stoutish 
man  in  semi-European  dress,  holding  a  few  pairs  of 
coarse  home-knit  socks,  evidently  for  sale.  I  stopped 
and  talked  to  him.  He  spoke  English  very  well, 
and  when  he  told  me  his  story  I  marvelled. 

^  One  tradition  places  the  Transfiguration  on  Mount  Tabor,  but 
Tabor  is  fifty  miles  away  whereas  Cesarea  Philippi,  to  which  the 
little  group  descended,  lies  at  the  foot  of  Hermon. 

212 


Into  Syria 


He  had  been  in  America;  in  Brooklyn;  had  car- 
ried on  business  there — something  in  Syrian  merchan- 
dise— and  had  done  very  well.  He  had  married  there 
— a  Syrian  woman;  his  children  were  born  there — 
Americans.  Then  one  day  he  had  sold  out  and  brought 
them  all  to  this  flat-topped  mud  village  in  the  Syrian 
sand.  Why  had  he  done  it  ?  Well,  he  could  hardly 
tell ;  he  had  wanted  to  see  Syria  again — ^he  could  think 
of  no  other  reason.  No,  his  wife  did  not  like  it,  nor 
the  children — not  at  all. 

He  pointed  out  his  mud  hut  a  little  way  from  the 
station,  and  I  could  not  blame  them.  He  would  go 
back  some  day — yes,  certainly.  Meantime,  his  wife 
is  earning  money  for  the  trip  by  knitting  the  coarse 
socks  which  he  sells  around  the  station  at  Reyak  at 
a  few  piastres  a  pair. 

Our  train  was  about  ready  to  start  for  Baalbec, 
and  I  was  lingering  over  a  little  collection  of  relics 
which  a  blind  pedler  offered,  when  I  felt  a  hand  on 
my  shoulder  and  heard  my  name  called.  I  turned 
and  was  face  to  face  with  the  artist  Jules  Gurin,  of 
New  York.  I  had  known  nothing  of  his  presence  in 
Syria,  he  had  known  nothing  of  our  coming.  He  was 
going  in  one  direction,  I  in  another.  In  this  remote 
waste  our  lines  had  crossed.  He  was  so  glad  to  see 
me — he  thought  I  had  a  supply  of  cigars.  I  never 
saw  a  man's  enthusiasm  die  so  suddenly  as  his  did 
when  I  told  him  how  I  had  been  sick  that  morning 
and  forgotten  them. 

Altogether  that  was  a  curious  half  hour.  Reyak 
is  the  most  uninteresting  place  in  Syria,  but  I  shall 
always  remember  it. 

213 


XXIV 

THE    HOUSE   THAT   CAIN   BUILT 

IT  was  well  along  in  the  afternoon  when  we  reached 
Baalbec,  and  drove  through  a  cloud  of  dust  to  a  hotel 
which  stands  in  a  mud  village  near  the  ruins.  Long 
before  we  arrived  we  could  make  out  massive  rem- 
nants of  what  was  once  a  wonder  of  the  world,  and 
remains  no  less  so  to-day.  We  could  distinguish 
sections  of  the  vast  wall,  and,  towering  high  above 
them,  the  six  columns  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun. 

I  knew  those  six  columns.  I  had  carried  a  picture 
of  them  in  my  mind  ever  since  that  winter  so  long 
ago  when  the  old  first  edition  of  the  New  Pilgrim's 
Progress  became  familiar  in  our  household.  I  know 
they  were  seventy-five  feet  high  and  eight  feet  through, 
and  had  blocks  of  stone  on  the  top  of  them  as  big  as 
our  old-fashioned  parlor  at  home ;  also,  that  they  were 
probably  erected  by  giants.  Those  items  had  made 
an  impression  that  had  lasted.  Now,  here  they  were, 
outlined  against  the  sky,  in  full  view  and  perfectly 
familiar,  but  never  in  the  world  could  they  be  as 
big  as  the  book  said.  Why,  these, were  as  slender  and 
graceful  as  fairy  architecture!  I  recalled  that  there 
were  some  big  stones  to  see,  stones  laid  by  Cain  and 
his  giants  when  the  world  was  new.  Perhaps  they 
would  not  be  so  very  big,  after  all.  I  had  a  feeling 
that  we  ought  to  hurry. 

214 


The  House   that  Cain  Built 


We  did  hurry — Laura  and  I.  We  did  not  wait  for 
the  party,  but  set  out  straight  for  the  ruins,  through 
narrow  streets  and  byways,  with  beggars  at  our 
heels.  By-and-by  we  came  to  a  rushing  brook,  and 
just  beyond  it  were  the  temple  walls. 

I  remembered  now.  There  had  been  a  wonderful 
garden  outside  the  temples  in  the  old  days,  and  this 
stream  had  made  it  richly  verdant  and  beautiful. 
There  was  no  garden  any  more.  Only  some  grass 
and  bushes,  such  as  will  gather  about  an  oasis. 

They  would  not  let  us  into  the  temple  enclosure 
until  our  party  came,  so  we  wandered  around  the  outer 
walls  and  gazed  up  at  cornices  and  capitals  and  en- 
tablatures as  beautiful,  we  thought,  as  any  we  had 
seen  at  Athens.  Then  the  party  arrived,  and  there 
was  a  gatekeeper  to  let  us  in. 

It  would  take  a  man  in  perfect  health  to  carry  away 
even  an  approximate  impression  of  Baalbec.  Trying 
to  remember  now,  I  seem  to  have  spent  the  afternoon 
in  some  amazing  delirium  of  tumbling  walls  and  ruined 
colonnades ;  of  heaped  and  piled  fragments ;  of  scarred 
and  defaced  sculpture;  of  Titanic  masonry  flung 
about  by  the  fury  of  angry  gods.  Athens  had  been  a 
mellowed  and  hallowed  dream  of  the  past;  Ephesus 
a  vast  suggestion  of  ancient  greatness  buried  and 
overgrown;  Baalbec  was  a  wild  agony  of  destruction 
and  desecration  crying  out  to  the  sky. 

It  is  a  colossal  object-lesson  in  what  religions  can 
do  when  they  try.  Nobody  really  knows  who  began 
to  build  temples  here,  but  from  the  time  of  Adam 
Baalbec  became  a  place  of  altars.  Before  history  be- 
gan it  was  already  a  splendid  Syrian  city,  associated 

215 


The  Ship -'Dwellers 


with  the  names  of  Cain,  Nimrod,  and  Abraham,  and 
it  may  have  been  Cain  himself  who  raised  the  first 
altar  here  when  he  made  that  offering  for  which  the 
Lord  ''had  not  respect."  More  likely,  however — and 
this  is  the  Arab  belief — it  was  the  city  of  refuge  built 
by  Cain,  whose  fear  must  have  been  very  large  if 
one  may  judge  from  the  size  of  the  materials  used. 

Cain  could  not  fail  to  build  a  temple,  however. 
He  would  try  to  ease  the  punishment  which  he  de- 
clared was  greater  than  he  could  bear,  and  with  burnt 
offering  and  architecture  would  seek  to  propitiate  an 
angry  God.  How  long  the  worship  inaugurated  by 
him  lasted  we  can  only  surmise — to  the  flood,  maybe — 
but  the  Phoenicians  came  next,  and  set  up  temples  to 
their  Gods,  whoever  they  were,  and  after  the  Phoeni- 
cians came  Solomon,  who  built  a  temple  to  a  sort  of 
compromise  god  by  the  name  of  Baal — a  deity  left 
over  by  the  Phoenicians  and  adapted  to  Judean  needs 
and  ceremonies — hence  the  name,  Baalbec.  Solomon 
built  the  temple  to  Baal  to  satisfy  certain  of  his 
heathen  wives,  and  he  made  the  place  a  strong  city 
to  rival  Damascus — ^the  latter  having  refused  to 
acknowledge  his  reign. 

After  Solomon,  the  Romans.  Two  hundred  years 
or  so  after  Christ — in  the  twilight  of  their  glory  and 
their  gods — ^the  Romans  under  Elagabalus  brought 
the  glory  of  Grecian  architecture  to  Baalbec,  named 
the  place  Heliopolis,  and  set  up  temples  that  were — 
and  are — the  wonder  of  the  world. 

What  satisfactory  gods  they  must  have  been  to 
deserve  temples  such  as  these — each  shrine  a  marvel 
of  size  and  beauty — more  splendid  even  than  those 

216 


The  House  that  Cain  Built 


of  the  Acropolis  of  Athens  in  their  lavish  magnificence ! 
This  carved  doorway  to  the  Temple  of  Jupiter;  this 
frieze  of  the  Temple  of  Bacchus;  these  towering 
six  columns  of  the  Temple  of  the  Sun;  still  holding 
their  matchless  Corinthian  capitals  and  amazing  en- 
tablature to  the  sky — where  else  will  one  find  their 
equals,  and  what  must  they  have  been  in  their  prime, 
when  these  scarred  remnants  can  still  overpower  the 
world ! 

It  was  another  religion  that  brought  ruin  here — 
early  Christianity — presently  followed  by  early  Mo- 
hammedanism— each  burning  with  vandalic  zeal.  It 
was  the  good  Emperor  Constantine  that  first  upset  the 
Roman  gods  and  their  temples.  Then  Theodosius 
came  along  and  pulled  down  the  great  structures,  and 
out  of  the  pieces  built  a  church  that  was  an  architect- 
ural failure.  Then  all  the  early  Christians  in  the 
neighborhood  took  a  hand  in  pulling  down  and  over- 
turning; hacking  away  at  the  heathen  sculpture  and 
tracery  —  climbing  high  up  the  walls  to  scar  and 
disfigure  —  to  obliterate  anything  resembling  a  face. 
Then  pretty  soon  the  early  Mohammedans  came  along 
and  carried  on  the  good  work,  and  now  and  then  an 
earthquake  took  a  hand,  until  by-and-by  the  place 
became  the  ghastly  storm  of  destruction  it  appears 
to-day. 

I  was  ill  when  I  saw  Baalbec.  My  flesh  was  burning 
and  my  pulse  throbbing  with  fever.  Perhaps  my 
vision  was  distorted  and  the  nightmare  seemed  worse 
than  it  really  is,  but  as  I  stood  in  that  field  of  mutila- 
tion and  disorder,  gazing  along  its  wrecked  and  insult- 
ed glory,  and  through  tumbling  arch  and  ruined  door 

217 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


caught  vistas  of  fertile  and  snow-capped  hill,  I  seemed 
to  see  a  vision  of  what  it  had  been  in  the  day  of  its 
perfection.  Also,  I  felt  an  itch  to  meet  one  or  two  of 
those  early  enthusiasts — some  night  in  a  back  alley 
when  they  were  not  looking  for  me  and  I  had  a  piece 
of  scantling — I  felt  a  sick  man's  craving,  as  it  were, 
to  undertake  a  little  damage  and  disfiguration  on 
my  own  account.  Oh,  well,  it's  all  in  the  eternal 
story.  Religions  established  these  temples ;  religions 
pulled  them  down.  The  followers  of  one  faith  have 
always  regarded  as  heathen  those  which  preceded 
them.  There  lies  a  long  time  ahead.  Will  the  next 
religion  restore  Baalbec  or  complete  its  desolation  ? 

Some  little  Syrian  girls  beset  Laura  on  the  way 
back  to  the  hotel  and  tried  to  sell  her  some  bead 
embroidery  which  it  seems  they  make  in  a  mission- 
school  established  here  by  the  English.  One  of  them 
— a  little  brown  madonna  of  about  ten — could  speak 
English  quite  well.     Laura  asked  her  name. 

''Name  Mary,"  she  said. 

"But  that's  an  English  name." 

She  trotted  along  silently,  thinking;  then  said: 

"No,  Syria — Mary  Syria  name." 

Sure  enough,  we  had  forgotten.  The  first  Mary 
had  indeed  been  Syrian,  and  I  imagined  her,  now,  a 
child — brown,  barefoot  and  beautiful,  like  this  Mary, 
with  the  same  pathetic  eyes.  Laura — young,  fair- 
skinned  and  pink-cheeked — was  a  marvel  to  these 
children.  They  followed  her  to  the  door,  and  when 
she  could  not  buy  all  their  stock  in  trade  they  insisted 
on  making  her  presents,  and  one  of  them — ^little 
Mary — begged  to  be  taken  to  America. 

218 


The  House   that  Cain  Built 


We  saw  the  celebrated  "big  stones"  next  morning. 
Several  of  them  are  built  into  the  lower  tiers  of  the 
enclosing  temple  wall,  and  three  of  these — ^the  largest 
ones — measure  each  from  sixty-two  to  sixty-four  feet 
long  and  are  thirteen  feet  thick!  They  rest  upon 
stones  somewhat  thicker,  but  shorter — stones  about 
the  size  of  a  two-story  cottage — and  these  in  turn  rest 
on  masonry  still  less  gigantic.  Evidently  it  was  the 
intention  of  the  builders  to  increase  the  size  of  their 
material  as  they  went  higher,  and  the  big  block  still 
in  the  quarry  carries  out  that  idea. 

Authorities  differ  as  to  when  these  big  stones  were 
laid,  and  how.  Some  claim  that  they  were  put  here 
by  the  Romans,  because  they  find  Greek  axe-marks 
on  the  ones  below  them.  But  then  I  found  American 
jack-knife  marks  on  them  too,  and  the  names  of  cer- 
tain of  my  countrymen,  which  proves  nothing  except 
that  these  puny  people  had  been  there  and  left  their 
measurement.  If  these  monster  stones  had  been  laid 
by  the  Romans  only  two  thousand  years  ago,  we 
should  have  had  some  knowledge  of  the  means  by 
which  they  were  transported  and  lifted  into  place. 
There  is  no  such  record,  and  nowhere  else  at  least  did 
the  Romans  ever  attempt  structure  of  such  gigantic 
proportions.  That  is  precisely  the  word,  ** gigantic," 
for  there  were  giants  in  the  days  when  these  stones 
were  laid  —  stones  that  could  have  been  there  six 
thousand  years  as  well  as  two  thousand,  being  of  such 
material  as  forms  the  foundations  of  the  world. 

If  Cain  did  any  building  at  Baalbec,  he  did  it  here. 
He  did  not  finish  the  work,  it  would  seem,  or  at  least 
not  in  these  proportions.     Perhaps  his  giants  deserted 

219 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


him — struck,  as  we  say  to-day.  Perhaps  the  hands 
of  men  were  no  longer  against  him  and  the  need  of  this 
mighty  bulwark  about  his  place  of  refuge  ceased.  At 
all  events,  the  first  stone  hewn  out  for  the  next  layer 
stands  in  the  quarry  still. 

We  drove  over  there.  It  was  half  a  mile  away,  at 
least — possibly  a  mile,  down  hill  and  rather  rough 
going.  The  stones  we  saw  in  the  wall  were  brought 
up  that  road.  The  one  standing  in  the  quarry  had 
been  lifted  and  started  a  little,  and  would  have  been 
on  its  way  presently,  if  the  strike,  or  the  amnesty,  had 
not  interfered. 

It  is  seventy-two  feet  long  and  seventeen  feet  thick. 
Try  to  think  of  a  plain  box  building,  a  barn  or  a  store- 
house, say,  of  that  size,  then  mentally  convert  it  into 
a  solid  block  of  stone.  Mark  Twain  likens  it  to  two 
freight-cars  placed  end  to  end,  but  it  is  also  as  high 
and  as  wide.  Eight  freight-cars  set  four  and  four 
would  just  about  express  it!  Think  of  that!  Think 
of  moving  a  stone  of  that  size! 

It  is  squared  and  dressed  and  ready  to  be  taken  to 
the  temple  wall.  It  will  never  be  taken  there.  Per- 
haps that  last  item  is  gratuitous  information,  but  at 
least  it  is  authentic.  We  have  no  means  of  moving 
that  stone  half  a  mile  up  a  rough  hill  in  these  puny 
times,  and  the  speculations  as  to  how  Cain  did  it  have 
been  mainly  hazy  and  random — quite  random. 

One  writer  suggests  that  such  stones  were  "rolled 
up  an  inclined  plane  of  earth  prepared  for  the  pur- 
pose." I  should  love  to  see  a  stone  like  that  rolled. 
I'd  travel  all  the  way  to  Baalbec  again  for  the  sight, 
and  they  could  prepare  the  inclined  plane  any  way 

220 


The  House   that  Cain  Built 


they  pleased.  An  Oriental  authority  declares  that 
these  stones  were  moved  and  laid  by  the  demon 
Echmoudi,  which  is  better  than  the  rolling  idea.  I 
confess  a  weakness  for  Echmoudi,  but  I  fear  hard  cold 
science  will  frown  him  out  of  court. 

It  has  taken  an  Englishman  to  lead  the  way  to 
light.  He  says  that  Cain  employed  mastodons  to  do 
his  moving.  Now  we  are  on  the  way  to  truth,  but  we 
must  go  further — a  good  deal  further.  Cain  did  em- 
ploy mastodons,  but  only  for  his  light  work.  Even 
mastodons  would  balk  at  pulling  stones  like  these. 
Cain  would  use  brontosaurs  for  such  work  as  that. 
There  were  plenty  of  them  loafing  about,  and  I  can 
imagine  nothing  more  impressive  than  Cain  standing 
on  a  handy  elevation  overlooking  his  force  of  giants 
and  a  sixteen-span  brontosaur  team  yanking  a  stone 
as  big  as  a  bonded  warehouse  up  Baalbec  hill. 

Truly,  there  is  no  reason  why  those  monster  stones 
should  not  have  been  quarried  a  million  or  so  years  ago 
and  moved  by  the  vast  animal  creatures  of  that  period. 
We  have  biblical  authority  for  the  giants,  and  I  have 
seen  a  brontosaur  in  the  New  York  Museum  that 
seemed  to  go  with  stones  of  about  that  size.  Think 
of  any  force  the  Romans  could  summon  rolling  a 
three-million-pound  square  stone  up  an  inclined 
plane.  Preposterous!  The  brontosaur 's  the  thing. 
15 


XXV 

GOING   DOWN   TO    DAMASCUS 

THERE  is  a  good  deal  of  country,  mainly  desert, 
between  Baalbec  and  Damascus,  and  a  good 
many  barren  hills.  Crossing  the  Anti-Lebanon  moun- 
tains there  is  a  little  of  water  and  soil  and  much  red, 
rocky  waste.  Here  and  there  a  guide  pointed  out  a 
hill  where  Cain  killed  Abel — not  always  the  same  hill, 
but  no  matter,  it  was  a  hill  in  this  neighborhood ;  any 
one  of  them  would  make  a  good  place.  Occasionally 
the  train  passed  a  squalid  village,  perched  on  a  lonely 
shelf — a  single  roof  stretching  over  most  of  the  houses 
— ^the  inhabitants  scarcely  visible.  We  wondered 
where  they  got  their  sustenance.  They  were  shep- 
herds, perhaps,  but  where  did  their  flocks  feed? 

Across  the  divide,  between  snow-capped  hills,  and 
suddenly  we  are  face  to  face  with  green  banks  and 
the  orchard  bloom  of  spring.  We  have  reached 
the  Abana,  the  river  which  all  the  ages  has  flowed 
down  to  Damascus  with  its  gift  of  eternal  youth. 
For  as  the  desert  defends,  so  the  river  sustains  Da- 
mascus, and  the  banks  of  the  Abana  (they  call  it  the 
Barada  now)  are  just  a  garden — the  Garden  of  Eden, 
if  old  tales  be  true. 

It  is  not  hard  to  believe  that  tradition  here,  at  this 
season.  Peach,  apricot,  almond,  and  plum  fairly  sing 
with  blossom ;  birch  and  sycamore  blend  a  cadence  of 

222 


Going  Down   to  Da?nascus 


tender  green;  the  red  earth  from  which  Adam  was 
created  (and  which  his  name  signifies)  forms  an 
abundant  underchord.  If  we  could  linger  a  little  by 
these  pleasant  waters  we  might  learn  the  lilt  of  the 
tree  of  life — its  whisper  of  the  forbidden  fruit. 

We  are  among  our  older  traditions  here — the  begin- 
nings of  the  race.  We  have  returned  after  devious 
wanderings.  These  people  whom  we  see  leading 
donkeys  and  riding  camels,  tending  their  flocks  and 
bathing  in  the  Abana,  they  are  our  relatives — sons  and 
daughters  of  Adam.  Only,  they  did  not  move  away. 
They  stayed  on  the  old  place,  as  it  were,  and  preserved 
the  family  traditions,  and  customs.  I  am  moved  to 
get  out  and  call  them  "cousin"  and  embrace  them, 
and  thank  them  for  not  trailing  off  after  the  false 
gods  and  frivolities  of  the  West. 

The  road  that  winds  by  the  Abana  is  full  of  pictures. 
The  story  of  the  Old  Testament — the  New,  too,  for 
that  matter — is  dramatized  here  in  a  manner  and  a 
setting  that  would  discourage  the  artificial  stage. 
Not  a  group  but  might  have  stepped  out  of  the  Bible 
pages.  This  man  leading  a  little  donkey — a  woman 
riding  it — their  garb  and  circumstance  the  immutable 
investment  of  the  East :  so  the  patriarchs  journeyed ; 
so,  two  thousand  years  later,  Joseph  and  Mary 
travelled  into  Egypt.  No  change,  you  see,  in  all 
that  time — no  change  in  the  two  thousand  years  that 
have  followed — no  change  in  the  two  thousand  years 
that  lie  ahead.  Wonderful,  changeless  East!  How 
frivolous  we  seem  in  comparison — always  racing  after 
some  new  pattern  of  head-gear  or  drapery !  How  can 
we  hope  to  establish  any  individuality,  any  nationality, 

223 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


any  artistic  stability  when  we  have  so  Httle  fixed 
foundation  in  what,  more  than  any  other  one  thing, 
becomes  a  part  of  the  man  himself — his  clothing  ? 

These  hills  are  interesting.  Some  of  them  have 
verdure  on  them,  and  I  can  fancy  Abraham  pasturing 
his  flocks  on  them,  and  with  little  Isaac  chasing 
calves  through  the  dews  of  Hermon.  It  would  not 
be  the  *'dews  of  Hermon,"  but  I  like  the  sound  of 
that  phrase.  I  believe  history  does  not  mention  that 
Abraham  and  Isaac  chased  calves.  No  matter; 
anybody  that  keeps  flocks  has  to  chase  calves  now 
and  then,  and  he  has  to  get  his  little  boy  to  help  him. 
So  Abraham  must  sometimes  have  called  Isaac  quite 
early  in  the  morning  to  *'go  and  head  off  that  calf," 
just  as  my  father  used  to  call  me,  and  I  can  imagine 
how  they  raced  up  and  down  and  sweat  and  panted, 
and  how  they  said  uncomplimentary  things  about 
the  calf  and  his  family,  and  declared  that  there  was 
nothing  on  earth  that  could  make  a  person  so  mad 
as  a  fool  calf,  anyhow. 

Travel  on  the  highway  has  increased — more  camels, 
more  donkeys,  more  patriarchs  with  their  families 
and  flocks.  Merchandise  trains  follow  close,  one  be- 
hind the  other.  Dust  rises  in  a  fog  and  settles  on  the 
wayside  vegetation.  Here  and  there  on  the  hillsides 
are  villas  and  entertainment  gardens. 

A  widening  of  the  valley,  an  expanse  of  green  and 
bloom,  mingled  with  domes  and  minarets;  a  slowing 
down  of  speed,  a  shouting  of  porters  through  the  sunlit 
dust,  and  behold,  we  have  reached  the  heart  and 
wonder  of  the  East,  Damascus,  the  imperishable — 
older  than  history,  yet  forever  young. 

224 


so    THE    PATRIARCHS    JOURNEYED;    SO,    TWO  THOUSAND    YEARS 
LATER,    JOSEPH    AND    MARY    TRAVELLED    INTO    EGYPT 


XXVI 


IT  is  the  oldest  city  in  the  world.  It  is  the  oldest 
locality  mentioned  in  the  Bible,  if  the  Garden  of 
Eden  theory  be  true.  I  suspect  that  Noah's  flood 
washed  away  the  garden,  and  that  his  grandson,  Uz, 
wanted  to  commemorate  the  site  by  building  a  city 
there.  At  all  events,  Uz  built  Damascus,  according 
to  Josephus,  and  he  could  not  have  picked  a  better 
location  than  this  wide,  level  plain,  watered  by  these 
beautiful  living  streams.  That  was  about  2400  B.C., 
which  means  that  Damascus  was  already  an  old  city 
— five  hundred  years  old,  or  more — when  Abraham 
overtook  Chedorlaomer,  King  of  Elam — ^Tidal,  King 
of  Nations,  and  two  other  kings — these  four  having 
captured  Abraham's  nephew.  Lot,  **who  dwelt  in 
Sodom,  and  his  goods,  and  departed." 

A  matter  of  four  kings  did  not  disturb  Abraham. 
He  had  a  better  combination  than  that.  He  armed 
his  trained  servants,  three  hundred  and  eighteen  in 
number,  "born  in  his  own  house,"  and  went  after 
those  kings  and  "smote  them  and  pursued  them  unto 
Hobah,  which  is  on  the  left  hand  of  Damascus,  rescued 
Lot  and  brought  back  the  goods." 

That  is  the  first  Bible  mention  of  Damascus,  and 
it  was  no  doubt  a  goodly  city,  even  then.  After  that 
it  appears,  time  and  again,  in  both  the  scriptures, 
and  one  never  fails  to  feel  its  importance  in  the  world's 

226 


The  ''Pearl  of  the  East'' 


story.  Five  hundred  years  after  Abraham,  Thothmes 
III.  thought  it  worth  while  to  cross  over  from  Egypt 
to  conquer  Damascus,  and  after  still  another  five 
hundred  years  King  David  ravaged  the  country  round 
about  and  set  up  a  garrison  here.  Those  were  not 
frequent  changes.  Damascus  does  not  do  things 
frequently  or  without  reflection.  I  believe  the  Medes 
came  next,  and  after  them  the  Romans,  and  then, 
quite  recently — recently  for  Damascus,  I  mean — only 
thirteen  hundred  years  ago — the  Mohammedans  took 
the  place  and  have  held  it  ever  since. 

And  Damascus  herself  has  remained  unchanged. 
Other  cities  have  risen  and  prospered  and  perished 
even  from  memory.  They  did  not  matter  to  Damas- 
cus. Nothing  matters  to  Damascus.  It  may  have 
altered  its  appearance  a  trifle  now  and  then,  but  not 
materially.  It  is  the  same  Damascus  that  Abraham 
knew  and  that  David  conquered.  I  can  see  both 
of  these  old  fellows  any  time  I  look  out  of  my  hotel 
window;  also,  the  three  hundred  and  eighteen  ser- 
vants bom  in  Abraham's  household — all  the  tableau 
of  the  ancient  city  that  has  remained  forever  young. 

''Though  old  as  history  itself,  thou  art  as  fresh  as 
the  breath  of  spring,  blooming  as  thine  own  rosebud, 
and  fragrant  as  thine  own  orange-flower,  O  Damascus, 
pearl  of  the  East!" 

We  are  at  the  Grande  Hotel  Victoria.  All  these 
hotels  are  "Grande"  something  or  other.  A  box 
shanty  ten  by  fifteen  is  likely  to  be  called  "Grande 
Hotel  de  France."  However,  the  Victoria  is  grand, 
rather,  and  quite  Oriental  in  its  general  atmosphere. 

227 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


The  rooms  are  clean,  too,  and  the  Turkish  pictures 
amusing.  Furthermore,  our  rooms  look  across  the 
river — the  soul  of  Damascus — the  water  in  which 
Eve  first  saw  her  sweet  reflected  form,  if  tradition 
holds.  Its  banks  are  bordered  by  a  great  thorough- 
fare now,  where  against  a  background  of  peach- 
bloom  and  minaret  an  eternal  panorama  flows  by. 
Camel  trains  from  Bagdad  and  the  far  depths  of 
Persia;  mule  trains  from  the  Holy  Land;  donkey 
trains  from  nowhere  in  particular ;  soldiers  with  bands 
playing  weird  music;  groups  of  Arabs  mounted  on 
splendid  horses  —  dark  men  with  long  guns,  their 
burnouses  flying  in  the  wind.  One  might  sit  here  for- 
ever and  drift  out  of  time,  out  of  space,  in  the  fabric 
of  the  never-ending  story. 

Being  late  in  the  afternoon,  with  no  programme, 
Laura  and  I  set  out  to  seek  adventure,  were  imme- 
diately adopted  by  a  guide,  and  steered  toward  the 
bazaars.  We  crossed  a  public  square  near  the  hotel 
where  there  were  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  jackasses 
— some  of  them  mounted  by  men,  others  loaded  with 
every  merchandise  under  the  sun.  We  saw  our  first 
unruly  donkey  just  then — a  very  small  donkey 
mounted  by  a  very  fat  son  of  the  prophet  with  a  vast 
turban  and  beard.  It  being  the  Mohammedan  Sun- 
day (Friday) ,  he  had  very  likely  been  to  the  mosque 
and  to  market,  and  was  going  home.  He  had  a  very 
large  bush  broom  under  his  arm,  and  it  may  have 
been  this  article  thrashing  up  and  down  on  the  don- 
key's flank  that  made  him  restive.  At  all  events,  he 
was  cavorting  about  (the  donkey,  I  mean)  in  a  most 
unseemly  fashion  for  one  bestridden  by  so  grave  a 

228 


The  ''Pearl  of  the  East'' 


burden,  and  Mustapha  Mohammed  —  they  are  all 
named  that — was  bent  forward  in  a  ball,  uttering 
what  Laura  thought  might  be  quotations  from  the 
Koran.  We  did  not  see  what  happened.  They  were 
still  gyrating  and  spinning  when  we  were  caught  up 
by  the  crowd  and  swept  into  the  bazaar. 

The  Grande  Bazaar  of  Damascus  excels  anything 
we  have  seen.  It  is  bigger  and  better  and  cleaner 
than  the  bazaar  of  Constantinople,  and  a  hundred — 
no,  a  million — times  more  inviting.  No  Christian 
could  eat  anything  in  a  Constantinople  market-place. 
The  very  thought  of  it  gags  me  now  as  I  write,  while 
here  in  Damascus,  Laura  and  I  were  having  confections 
almost  immediately — and  lemonade  cooled  with  snow 
brought  on  the  backs  of  camels  from  the  Lebanon 
mountain-tops.  Mark  Twain  speaks  of  the  place 
as  being  filthy.  I  think  they  must  have  cleaned  up 
a  good  deal  since  then;  besides,  that  was  midsummer. 
I  would  not  like  to  say  that  the  place  is  speckless, 
but  for  the  Orient  it  was  clean,  and  the  general  bouquet 
was  not  disturbing.  Also,  I  had  a  safer  feeling  in 
Damascus.  I  did  not  feel  that  if  I  stepped  into  a  side- 
street  I  would  immediately  be  dragged  down  and 
robbed.  I  did  not  feel  as  if  I  were  a  lost  soul  in  a 
bedlam  of  demons. 

We  noticed  other  things.  The  little  booths,  one 
after  another,  were  filled  with  the  most  beautiful 
wares — such  wares  as  we  have  seen  nowhere  else — 
but  the  drowsy  merchants  sat  crosslegged  in  medi- 
tation, smoking  their  nargileh  or  reading  their  prayers, 
and  did  not  ask  us  to  buy.  If  we  stopped  to  look  at 
their  goods  they  hardly  noticed  us.     If  we  priced  them 

229 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


they  answered  our  guide  in  Arabic  monosyllables. 
Here  and  there  a  Jew  with  a  more  pretentious  stock 
would  solicit  custom  in  the  old  way  of  Israel,  but  the 
Arab  was  silent,  indifferent,  disinterested.  Clearly  it 
was  his  preference  that  we  pass  by  as  quickly  as 
possible.  His  goods  were  not  for  such  as  us.  I  did 
manage  to  add  to  my  collection  of  donkey-beads, 
and  would  have  bought  more  if  Laura  had  not  sug- 
gested that  they  probably  thought  I  was  buying  them 
to  wear  myself.  At  the  book-booth  they  even  would 
not  let  us  touch  the  volumes  displayed  for  sale. 

Another  thing  I  have  noticed :  there  are  no  beggars 
here — none  worth  while.  Now  and  then,  perhaps, 
somebody  half  extends  a  timid  hand,  but  on  the 
whole  there  is  a  marked  absence  of  begging.  Damas- 
cus does  not  beg  from  the  Christian. 

It  is  a  weird,  wonderful  place,  that  bazaar.  It 
covers  an  endless  space,  if  one  may  judge  from  its 
labyrinthine  interior.  Everywhere  they  stretch  away, 
the  dim  arcades,  fiimsily  roofed  with  glass  and  matting 
and  bark,  fading  into  vague  Oriental  vistas  of  flitting 
figures  and  magic  outlines.  Here  in  the  main  thor- 
oughfare a  marvellous  life  goes  on.  The  space  is 
wide,  and  there  are  masses  of  people  moving  to  and 
fro,  mingled  with  donkeys  and  camels,  and  even  car- 
riages that  dash  recklessly  through;  and  there  is  a 
constant  cry  of  this  thing  and  that  thing  from  the 
donkey-boys  and  the  pedlers  of  nuts  and  bread  and 
insipid  sweetened  drinks.  Some  of  the  pedling 
people  clatter  little  brass  cymbals  as  they  walk  up  and 
down,  and  repeat  over  and  over  some  words  which 
our  guide  said  were  something  between  a  prayer  and 

230 


The  ''Pearl  of  the   East' 


a  song,  probably  as  old  as  the  language.^  And  the 
vendors  of  drinks  carry  their  stock  in  trade  in  a  goat- 
skin, or  maybe  in  a  pigskin,  which  is  not  a  pretty 
thing  to  look  at — all  black  and  hairy  and  wet,  with 
distended  legs  sticking  out  like  something  drowned. 
We  didn't  buy  any  of  those  drinks.  We  thought 
they  might  be  clean  enough,  but  we  were  no  longer 
thirsty. 

All  sorts  of  things  are  incorporated  in  this  bazaar: 
old  dwelling-houses;  columns  of  old  temples;  stair- 
ways beginning  anywhere,  leading  nowhere;  mosques 
— ^the  limitless  roof  of  merchandise  has  stretched 
out  and  enveloped  these  things.  To  attempt  a  de- 
tailed description  of  the  place  would  be  unwisdom. 
One  may  only  generalize  this  vast  hive  of  tiny  trades- 
men and  tiny  trades.  All  the  curious  merchants  and 
wares  we  have  seen  pictured  for  a  lifetime  are  gathered 
here.  It  is  indeed  the  Grande  Bazaar — the  emporium 
of  the  East. 

The  street  we  followed  came  to  an  end  by-and-by 
-at  a  great  court  open  to  the  sky.  It  was  a  magnificent 
enclosure,  and  I  was  quite  willing  to  enter  it.  I  did 
not  do  so,  however.  I  had  my  foot  raised  to  step 
over  the  low  barrier,  when  there  was  a  warning  cry 
and  a  brown  hand  pushed  me  back.  Our  guide  had 
dropped  a  step  behind.  He  came  hurrying  up  now, 
and  explained  that  this  was  the  court  of  the  Great 
Mosque.  We  must  have  special  permission  to  enter. 
We  would  come  with  the  party  to-morrow. 

The  place  impressed  me  more  than  any  mosque 

^The  pedler  of  bread  cries,  "O  Allah  who  sustaineth  us,  send 
trade ! "     The  pedler  of  beverages, ' *  O  cheer  thine  heart ! " 

231 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


we  have  seen — not  for  its  beauty,  though  it  is  beauti- 
ful, but  because  of  its  vastness,  its  open  sky,  and  its 
stone  floor,  poHshed  Hke  glass  by  the  bare  and  stock- 
inged feet  that  have  slipped  over  it  for  centuries. 
We  could  not  enter,  but  we  were  allowed  to  watch 
those  who  came  as  they  removed  their  shoes  and  step- 
ped over  into  the  court  to  pray.  When  you  realize 
that  the  enclosure  is  as  big  as  two  or  three  city  squares, 
and  that  the  stones,  only  fairly  smooth  in  the  begin- 
ning, reflect  like  a  mirror  now,  you  will  form  some 
idea  of  the  feet  and  knees  and  hands  that  have 
pressed  them,  and  realize  something  of  the  fervor  of 
the  Damascus  faith. 

We  left  the  bazaar  by  a  different  way,  and  our 
guide  got  lost  getting  us  back  to  the  hotel.  I  didn't 
blame  him,  though — anybody  could  get  lost  in  those 
tangled  streets.  We  were  in  a  hopeless  muddle, 
for  it  was  getting  dark,  when  down  at  the  far  end  of 
a  narrow  defile  Laura  got  a  glimpse  of  a  building 
which  she  said  was  like  one  opposite  our  hotel.  So 
we  went  to  look  for  it,  and  it  was  the  same  building. 
Then  our  guide  found  the  hotel  for  us,  and  we  paid 
him,  and  everything  was  all  right.  He  didn't  know 
anything  about  the  city,  I  believe,  but  was  other- 
wise a  perfect  guide. 

Following,  we  put  in  a  busy  two  days  in  Damas- 
cus— a  marvellous  two  days,  I  thought.  Our  car- 
riages were  at  the  hotel  next  morning,  and  I  want 
to  say  here  that  of  all  the  carriages  and  horses 
we  have  seen,  those  of  Damascus  are  far  and  away 
the  best.  The  horses  are  simply  beautiful  creatures 
and  in  perfect  condition.     Even  those  kept  for  hire 

232 


The  ''Pearl  of  the  East 


are  superb  animals  with  skins  of  velvet.  They  are 
Arabian,  of  course,  and  I  can  believe,  now,  that  the 
Arab  loves  his  horse,  for  I  have  never  seen  finer 
animals,  not  even  on  Fifth  Avenue.  I  can  under- 
stand, too,  why  the  Quaker  City  pilgrims — ambling 
into  Damascus  on  those  old,  blind,  halt  and  spavined 
Beirut  nags — made  their  entry  by  night. 

And  these  Damascus  horses  go.  Their  drivers 
may  love  them,  but  they  make  them  hurry.  They 
crack  their  whips,  and  we  go  racing  through  the  streets 
like  mad.  However  deliberate  the  East  may  be  in 
most  things,  it  is  swift  enough  in  the  matter  of  driving. 

I  don't  care  for  it.  It  keeps  me  watching  all  the 
time  to  see  what  kind  of  an  Arab  we  are  going  to 
kill,  and  I  miss  a  good  many  sights.  We  went 
through  that  crowded  thoroughfare  of  the  Grande 
Bazaar  at  a  rate  which  fairly  was  homicidal.  Cer- 
tainly if  those  drowsy  shopkeepers  did  not  hate 
Christians  enough  before,  they  do  now. 

We  drove  to  the  Grande  Mosque,  and  we  had  to  put 
on  slippers,  of  course,  to  enter  even  the  outer  court. 
It  is  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  and  we  slid 
and  straddled  across  that  vast  marble  skating-rink, 
pausing  at  a  little  pavilion — ^the  Dome  of  the  Treasury 
— ^where  they  keep  some  venerable  books — the  oldest 
books  in  the  world,  I  believe,  and  so  sacred  that 
nobody  ever  sees  them.  Then  we  entered  the  Grande 
Mosque  itself — still  known  as  the  Church  of  St.  John 
the  Divine. 

For,  like  the  temples  of  Baalbec  and  otherwheres, 
the  Grande  Mosque  of  Damascus  has  sheltered  a 
variety  of  religious  doctrines.     It  was  the  Temple 

233 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


of  Rimmon,  first,  god  of  the  Syrians.  The  Romans, 
who  conquered  and  templed  the  world,  came  next, 
and  built  here,  as  they  always  built,  in  magnificence 
and  pride,  with  architecture  stolen  from  the  Greeks. 
After  the  Romans,  the  early  Christians  under  Con- 
stant ine  and  Theodosius,  who  for  some  reason  did 
not  destroy,  as  was  their  habit,  but  only  adapted 
the  great  temple  to  their  needs.  The  son  of  Theodo- 
sius made  some  improvements,  and  above  the  south 
door  left  a  Christian  inscription  which  stands  to  this 
day. 

When,  in  634  a.d.,  Damascus  fell,  the  church  was 
at  first  divided  between  Mohammedan  and  Christian 
worshippers — the  two  entering  by  the  same  gate. 
They  were  not  so  far  asunder  in  those  days — not 
farther,  I  think,  than  some  of  our  present-day  Chris- 
tian sects — so  called.  Seventy  years  later  the  strife 
became  bitter,  and  the  followers  of  Mohammed 
claimed  it  all.  The  Caliph  entered  the  church  with 
guards,  smashed  the  Christian  images,  and  set  up 
emblems  of  the  new  faith.  Then  he  lavished  quanti- 
ties of  money,  making  the  place  as  splendid  as 
possible,  until  it  was  more  beautiful  even  than  St. 
Sophia's.  Sixteen  years  ago  it  was  badly  damaged 
by  fire,  but  now  it  has  been  restored — by  Christian 
workmen,  Habib  said.  Habib,  I  should  add,  is  our 
party  guide — a  Christian  Syrian,  educated  in  a  col- 
lege at  Beirut  —  a  quite  wonderful  person  of  many 
languages. 

The  mosque  interior  is  the  most  beautiful  place 
we  have  seen.  Its  ceiling,  its  windows,  its  mosaic 
walls,  its  rugs — all  overwhelming  in  exquisite  work- 

234 


The  ''Pearl  of  the  East'' 


manship  and  prodigality  of  design.  The  pictures  I 
have  dreamed  of  Aladdin's  palace  grow  dim  in  this 
enchanted  place.  No  wonder  the  faithful  linger  here 
on  their  way  to  and  from  Mecca;  for  after  the  long 
desert  stages  it  is  like  a  vision  of  that  lavish  paradise 
which  their  generous  prophet  has  provided.  They 
are  all  about — prostrating  themselves  with  many 
genuflections  and  murmurings — and  we  step  on  them 
as  little  as  possible,  but  they  are  a  good  deal  in  the 
way.  The  place  holds  ten  or  twelve  thousand  of  them 
every  Friday,  Habib  said. 

Habib,  by-the-way,  has  small  respect  for  the  Moslem. 
Also,  he  does  not  seem  to  fear  consequences,  which  I 
confess  I  do,  being  in  the  very  stronghold  of  fanaticism, 
and  remembering  that  some  five  thousand  Christians 
were  suddenly  and  violently  destroyed  in  Damascus 
not  so  many  years  ago.  We  were  in  front  of  a  very 
marvellous  mosaic  shrine,  and  Habib  beckoned  us 
to  come  closer  to  admire  its  exquisite  workmanship. 
A  devotee  was  prostrated  in  the  little  alcove,  bowing 
and  praying  in  the  usual  rhythmic  way.  We  sur- 
rounded him,  but  were  inclined  to  hold  a  little  aloof. 

"Closer,  closer!"  urged  Habib.  "You  must  see 
it!" 

We  crowded  up  and  entangled  the  praying  person, 
who  became  aware  of  our  presence  and  turned  up  his 
face  helplessly.  Then  he  pressed  it  again  to  the  floor, 
and  tried  to  go  on  with  his  murmurings.  It  was  no 
use.  Habib  jostled  him,  waved  his  pointing  stick 
over  his  head,  tapped  the  ornamentation  within  an 
inch  of  his  nose.  We  were  told  to  step  up  and  examine 
the  work  closely — ^to  touch  it,  smell  of  it.     Clearly 

235 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Habib  regarded  that  devotee  no  more  than  if  he  had 
been  a  mile  removed  instead  of  being  actually  against 
us.  The  poor  pious  pilgrim  stole  another  look  at  us, 
this  way  and  that,  slipped  a  notch  in  his  prayers, 
gathered  himself  and  tried  again,  let  go  a  whole  dis- 
tich, quavered  in  his  attempt  to  make  himself  heard, 
cast  another  appealing  glance  at  the  KMrfiirsters, 
broke  through,  and  fled.  This  is  not  an  exaggeration, 
but  an  actual  happening.  In  America  there  would 
have  been  trouble. 

''He  is  nothing"  said  Habib,  when  I  seemed  dis- 
turbed. "He  is  only  an  Arab."  Still,  he  was  pray- 
ing to  Habib's  God. 

Many  persons  do  not  realize,  I  believe,  that  Chris- 
tianity and  Mohammedanism  differ  mainly  in  their 
Messiah.  The  Jew  furnished  the  Moslem  as  well  as 
the  Christian  with  a  God,  patriarchs,  and  prophets — 
the  Old  Testament  being  common  to  all.  The  Mos- 
lem goes  further  than  the  Jew,  for  he  accepts  parts 
of  the  New  Testament.  He  recognizes  John  the 
Baptist  as  a  holy  messenger,  even  claiming  to  have 
his  head  in  this  very  church,  in  a  shrine  which  we 
saw,  though  I  could  see  that  Habib  thought  the  relic 
apocryphal.  Furthermore,  the  Moslem  accepts  Christ! 
To  him,  Christ  is  only  a  lesser  prophet  than  Moham- 
med, but  still  a  great  being — an  emissary  of  God — 
and  on  this  same  mosque  is  the  Minaret  of  Jesus, 
where,  one  day,  as  they  believe,  he  will  stand  to  judge 
the  world.  On  the  other  hand,  the  average  Christian 
believes  that  Mohammed  was  merely  a  fraud,  and 
it  is  this  difference  of  opinion  that  has  reddened  the 
East  with  blood.     I   am  moved  to  set  down  this 

236 


The   ''Pearl  of  the   East'' 


paragraph  of  rather  general  information  for  the  reason 
that  it  contains  some  things  which  I  suppose  others 
to  be  as  ignorant  of  as  I  was — ^things  which  seem  to  me 
interesting. 

We  did  see  one  old  book,  by-the-way  —  fifteen 
hundred  years  old,  Habib  said,  and  a  member  of  our 
party  asked  if  it  was  printed  on  a  press ;  though  that 
is  nothing — I  have  done  worse  myself.  Then  we 
ascended  the  Minaret  of  the  Bride  for  the  view. 
We  climbed  and  climbed,  and  got  hot,  and  shaky  in 
the  knees,  but  the  view  repaid  us.  There  was  Damas- 
cus spread  out  in  its  beauty;  its  marble  courts,  its 
domes  and  minarets  and  painted  houses — a  magic 
city  in  the  midst  of  a  garden  of  bloom.  Certainly 
this  is  fairyland — a  mirage  whose  fragile  fabric  may 
vanish  in  a  breath.  Oh,  our  time  is  all  too  short! 
One  must  have  long  and  long  to  look  upon  the  East — 
it  has  taken  so  long  to  build ! 

We  went  to  Saladin's  tomb,  and  that  is  authoritative, 
though  I  confess  that  I  could  not  realize,  as  we  stood 
in  that  narrow  building  and  viewed  the  catafalque  in 
the  centre,  that  the  mighty  Saracen  hero  of  romance 
rested  there.  For  me,  he  belongs  only  in  tales  of 
enchantment  and  fierce  deeds,  and  not  in  that  quiet 
place.  I  remembered  that  his  sword  was  so  sharp 
that  a  feather  pillow  dropped  on  its  edge  would  fall 
on  either  side.  Perhaps  they  have  the  sword  there, 
and  possibly  the  pillow  to  prove  it,  but  I  did  not  see 
them. 

A  Turkish  school  turned  out  to  look  at  us  and 
smile.  We  looked  and  smiled  back,  and  everybody 
was  satisfied.  It  is  certain  that  we  look  more  strange 
16  237 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


to  them  than  they  do  to  us,  now.  I  know  this,  for 
when  I  stop  anywhere  and  look  over  our  party,  here 
amid  the  turbans  and  fezzes  and  long  flowing  gar- 
ments of  the  Orient,  I  can  see  for  myself  that  it  is 
really  our  party  that  looks  queer  and  fantastic  and 
out  of  place — not  these  people  at  all. 

It  is  natural  that  one  should  realize  this  in  Damas- 
cus, for  Damascus  is  the  great  reality — the  unchanged 
and  changeless.  Algiers  was  a  framed  picture ;  Con- 
stantinople was  a  world's  Midway  —  a  sort  of  mas- 
querade, prepared  for  our  benefit.  Here  it  is  different. 
No  longer  the  country  and  the  people  constitute 
the  show,  but  ourselves.  One  presently  discovers 
that  he  is  artificial — an  alien,  a  discord — that  he  has 
no  place  here.  These  others  are  the  eternal  verities ; 
their  clothes  are  the  real  clothes  —  not  ours,  that 
change  fashion  with  every  year  and  season.  One 
is  tempted  to  abjure  all  the  fanfare  and  flourish  of 
his  so-called  progress — to  strip  off  his  ridiculous  gar- 
ments and  customs  and  fall  in  with  the  long  steady 
rhythm  of  the  ages. 

Only,  you  don't  do  it.  You  discover  objections 
to  such  a  course.  I  could  name  some  of  them  if  I 
wanted  to.  Never  mind;  you  couldn't  do  it  anyway. 
You  have  been  hurrying  and  sweating  and  capering 
about  and  wearing  your  funny  clothes  and  singing 
in  false  keys  too  long.  You  cannot  immediately  put 
on  the  garb  of  the  ages,  and  lock  step  with  the  swing 
of  a  thousand  years. 


XXVII 

FOOTPRINTS   OF   PAUL 

WE  entered  the  "street  which  is  called  Straight," 
and  came  to  the  house  of  Judas,  where  St.  Paul 
lodged  when  he  was  led  blind  into  Damascus,  trem- 
bling and  astonished  of  the  Lord.  His  name  was 
Saul,  and  he  had  been  on  his  way  to  Damascus  to 
persecute  the  Christians,  by  the  authority  of  Rome. 
The  story  is  in  the  ninth  chapter  of  Acts,  and  is  too 
familiar  to  repeat  here.  I  believe,  though,  most  of  us 
thought  the  house  of  Judas  had  some  connection  with 
the  unfaithful  disciple  of  that  name,  until  Habib 
enlightened  us.  Habib  said  that  this  was  another 
Judas — a  good  man — ^well-to-do  for  his  time.  The 
Street  called  Straight  runs  through  the  Grande  Bazaar, 
and  the  house  of  Judas  is  in  the  very  midst  of  that 
dim  aggregation  of  trades.  It  is  roofless  and  unoc- 
cupied, but  it  is  kept  clean  and  whitewashed,  and 
its  stone  walls  will  stand  for  another  two  thousand 
years. 

Next  to  the  birth  and  crucifixion  of  the  Saviour, 
the  most  important  event  in  the  story  of  Christianity 
happened  there.  It  seemed  strange  and  dreamlike 
to  be  standing  in  the  house  of  St.  Paul's  conver- 
sion—  a  place  which  heretofore  had  seemed  to  exist 
only  in  the  thin  leaves  and  fine  print  of  our  Sunday- 
school  days  —  and  I  found  myself  wondering  which 

239 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


corner  of  the  house  St.  Pau^  occupied,  just  where 
he  sat  at  table,  and  a  number  of  such  things.  Then 
I  noticed  the  drifting  throngs  outside,  passing  and  re- 
passing or  idhng  drowsily,  who  did  not  seem  to  know 
that  it  was  St.  Paul's  house,  and  paid  no  attention  to 
it  at  all. 

At  the  house  of  Ananias,  which  came  next,  Habib 
was  slow  in  arriving,  and  the  Horse-Doctor  gave  us  a 
preliminary  lecture. 

''This,"  he  said,  *'is  the  house  of  Ananias,  once 
fed  by  the  ravens.  Later,  through  being  a  trifle 
careless  with  the  truth,  he  became  the  founder  and 
charter  member  of  a  club  which  in  the  United  States 
of  America  still  bears  his  name.  Still  later  he  was 
struck  by  lightning  for  deceiving  his  mother-in-law, 
Saphira,  who  perished  at  the  same  time  to  furnish 
a  Scripture  example  that  the  innocent  must  suffer 
with  the  guilty  (see  Deuteronomy  xi.  i6):  This  is 
the  spot  where  Ananias  fell.  That  stone  marks  the 
spot  where  his  mother-in-law  stood.  The  hole  in 
the  roof  was  made  by  the  lightning  when  it  came 
through.     We  will  now  pass  on  to  the  next — " 

That  was  good  enough  gospel  for  our  party  if  Habib 
had  only  let  it  alone.  He  came  in  just  then  and 
interrupted.     He  said: 

"This  is  the  house  of  Ananias — called  St.  Ananias, 
to  distinguish  him  from  a  liar  by  the  same  name. 
That  Ananias  and  his  wife,  Saphira,  fell  dead  at  the 
feet  of  St.  Peter  because  of  falsehood,  a  warning  to 
those  who  trifle  with  the  truth  to-day.  St.  Ananias 
was  a  good  man,  who  restored  St.  Paul's  sight  and 
instructed  him  in  the  Christian  doctrine." 

240 


Footprints   of  Paul 


We  naturally  avoided  the  Doctor  for  a  time  after 
that.     His  neighborhood  seemed  dangerous. 

The  house  of  Ananias  is  below  ground,  and  was 
probably  used  as  a  hiding-place  in  a  day  when  it  was 
not  safe  for  an  active  and  busy  Christian  to  be  at 
large.  Such  periods  have  not  been  unusual  in 
Damascus.  St.  Paul  preached  Christianity  openly, 
but  not  for  long;  for  the  Jews  ''took  counsel  to  kill 
him,"  and  watched  the  gate  to  see  that  he  did  not 
get  away. 

''Then  the  disciples  took  him  by  night,  and  let 
him  down  the  wall  in  a  basket.'* 

We  drove  to  the  outer  wall,  and  came  to  the  place 
and  the  window  where  Paul  is  said  to  have  been  let 
down.  It  might  have  happened  there;  the  wall  is 
Roman,  and  the  window  above  it  could  have  been 
there  in  St.  Paul's  day.  I  prefer  to  believe  it  is 
the  real  window,  though  I  have  reason  to  think  they 
show  another  one  sometimes. 

Habib  said  we  were  to  visit  some  of  the  handsome 
residences  of  Damascus.  We  were  eager  for  that. 
From  the  Minaret  of  the  Bride  we  had  looked  down 
upon  those  marble  courts  and  gay  fagades,  and 
had  been  fascinated.  We  drove  back  into  the  city, 
through  narrow  mud-walled  streets,  forbidding  and 
not  overclean.  When  these  alleys  had  become  so 
narrow  and  disheartening  that  we  could  travel  only 
with  discomfort,  we  stopped  at  a  wretched  entrance 
and  were  told  to  get  out.  Certainly  this  was  never 
the  portal  to  any  respectable  residence.  But  we  were 
mistaken.  The  Damascus  house  is  built  from  the 
inside  out.     It  is  mud  and  unseemly  disrepute  with- 

241 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


out,  but  it  is  fairyland  within.  Every  pretentious 
house  is  built  on  the  same  plan,  and  has  a  marble 
court,  with  a  fountain  or  pool,  and  some  peach  or 
apricot  or  orange  trees.  On  one  side  of  the  court 
is  the  front  of  the 'house.  It  has  a  high  entrance,  and 
rooms  to  the  right  and  to  the  left — rooms  that  have  a 
raised  floor  at  one  end  (that  is  where  the  rich  rugs  are) 
and  very  high  ceilings — forty  feet  high,  some  of  them 
— decorated  with  elaborate  designs.  In  the  first 
house  the  round  writhing  rafters  were  exposed,  and 
the  decoration  on  them  made  them  look  exactly  like 
snakes.  The  Apostle  took  one  look  and  fled,  and  I 
confess  I  did  not  care  for  them  much  myself.  The 
rest  of  the  house  was  divided  into  rooms  of  many 
kinds,  and  there  was  running  water,  and  a  bath.  We 
visited  another  house,  different  only  in  details.  Some 
of  the  occupants  were  at  home  here  —  women-folks 
who  seemed  glad  to  see  us,  and  showed  us  about 
eagerly.  A  tourist  party  from  far-off  America  is  a 
diversion  to  them,  no  doubt. 

Then  we  went  to  still  another  house.  We  saw  at 
once  that  it  was  a  grander  place  than  the  two  already 
visited,  and  we  were  simply  bewildered  at  the  abund- 
ance of  the  graven  brass  and  inlaid  furniture,  rich 
rugs  and  general  bric-a-brac,  that  filled  a  great 
reception-room.  Suddenly  servants  in  Turkish  dress 
appeared  with  trays  of  liqueurs — two  kinds,  orange 
and  violet — ^urging  us  to  partake  of  the  precious  stuff, 
without  stint.  Also,  there  were  trays  of  rare  coffee 
and  dainty  sweetmeats,  and  we  were  invited  to  sit 
in  the  priceless  chairs  and  to  handle  the  wonderful 
things  to    our  hearts'    content.      We  were   amazed, 

242 


URGING    US    TO    PARTAKE    OF    THE    PRECIOUS    STUFF,   WITHOUT 

STINT 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


stunned.  Oriental  hospitality  could  go  no  further. 
Then  in  some  subtle  manner  —  I  don't  remember 
how  the  information  was  conveyed,  but  it  must 
have  been  delicately,  Orientally  done — ^we  learned 
that  all  this  brass,  all  these  marvellous  things,  were 
for  sale! 

Did  we  buy  them?  Did  we!  David  did  not  take 
more  brass  from  Hadadezer  than  we  carried  out  of 
that  Damascus  residence,  which  was  simply  an  annex 
to  a  great  brass  and  mosaic  factory,  as  we  discovered 
later.  Perhaps  those  strange  liqueurs  got  into  our 
enthusiasm ;  certainly  I  have  never  seen  our  party  so 
liberal — so  little  inclined  to  haggle  and  hammer  down. 

But  the  things  themselves  were  worth  while.  The 
most  beautiful  brass  in  the  world  is  made  in  Damascus, 
and  it  is  made  in  that  factory. 

They  took  us  in  where  the  work  was  going  on.  I 
expected  to  see  machinery.  Nothing  of  the  sort — 
not  a  single  machine  anywhere.  Every  stage  of  the 
work  is  performed  by  hand — done  in  the  most  primi- 
tive way,  by  workmen  sitting  on  the  ground,  shaping 
some  artistic  form,  or  with  a  simple  graving -tool 
working  out  an  intricate  design.  Many  of  the  workers 
were  mere  children — girls,  most  of  them — some  of 
them  not  over  seven  or  eight  years  old,  yet  even 
these  were  producing  work  which  would  cause  many 
an  ''  arts  and  crafts"  young  lady  in  America  to  pale 
with  envy.  They  get  a  few  cents  a  day.  The 
skilled  workers,  whose  deft  fingers  and  trained  vision 
produce  the  exquisite  silver  inlay  designs,  get  as 
much  as  a  shilling.  No  wonder  our  people  did  not 
haggle.     The  things  were  cheap,  and  they  knew  it. 

244 


Footprints   of  Paul 


In  a  wareroom  in  the  same  factory  I  noticed  that 
one  of  the  walls  was  stone,  and  looked  like  Roman 
masonry;  also  that  in  it  were  the  outlines  of  two 
high  arches,  walled  up.     I  asked  Habib  about  it. 

"Those,"  he  said,  "are  two  of  the  entrances  to 
the  Street  called  Straight.  We  are  outside  of  the 
wall  here ;  this  house  is  built  against  it.  The  Straight 
street  had  three  entrances  in  the  old  days.  Those 
two  have  long  been  closed." 

It  always  gives  me  a  curious  sensation  to  realize 
that  actual  people  are  living  and  following  their  daily 
occupations  in  the  midst  of  associations  like  these. 
I  can't  get  used  to  it  at  all. 

To  them,  however,  it  is  nothing.  The  fact  that 
they  sleep  and  wake  and  pursue  their  drowsy  round 
in  places  hallowed  by  tradition;  that  the  house 
which  sheltered  St.  Paul  stands  in  the  midst  of  their 
murmuring  bazaar;  that  one  side  of  this  wareroom 
is  the  wall  of  the  ancient  city,  the  actual  end  of  the 
Street  called  Straight;  that  every  step  they  take  is 
on  historic  ground,  sacred  to  at  least  three  religions — 
this  to  me  marvellous  condition  is  to  them  not  strange 
at  all. 

It  is  not  that  they  do  not  realize  the  existence  of 
these  things:  they  do — at  least,  most  of  them  do — 
and  honor  and  preserve  their  landmarks.  But  that 
a  column  against  which  they  dream  and  smoke  may 
be  one  of  the  very  columns  against  which  St.  Paul 
leaned  as  he  groped  his  blind  way  down  the  Street 
called  Straight  is  to  them  not  a  matter  for  wonder,  or 
even  comment. 

I  am  beginning  to  understand  their  point  of  view — 

245 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


even  to  envy  it.  I  do  not  envy  some  of  the  things 
they  have — some  of  their  customs — but  their  serenity 
of  habit,  their  security  of  place  in  the  stately  march 
of  time,  their  establishment  of  race  and  religion — one 
must  envy  these  things  when  he  considers  them 
here,  apart  from  that  environment  which  we  call 
civilized — the  whirl  which  we  call  progress. 

I  do  not  think  I  shall  turn  Moslem.  The  doctrine 
has  attractive  features,  both  here  and  hereafter;  but 
I  would  not  like  to  undertake  the  Koran  at  my  tim.e 
of  life.  I  can,  however,  and  I  do,  pay  the  tribute  of 
respect  to  the  sun-baked  land  and  sun-browned  race 
that  have  given  birth  to  three  of  the  world's  great 
religions,  even  though  they  have  not  unnaturally 
claimed  their  last  invention  as  their  best  and  held  it 
as  their  own. 


XXVIII 

DISCONTENTED   PILGRIMS 

WE  entered  the  remaining  portal  of  the  Street 
called  Straight  and  drove  to  the  Grand  Bazaar. 
We  were  in  a  buying  fever  by  this  time,  and  plunged 
into  a  regular  debauch  of  bargain  and  purchase.  We 
were  all  a  little  weary  when  we  reached  the  hotel. 
We  came  in  carrying  our  brass  and  other  loot,  and 
dropped  down  on  the  first  divan,  letting  our  bundles 
fall  where  they  listed. 

I  thought  the  Apostle  looked  particularly  solemn. 
Being  a  weighty  person,  jouncing  all  day  in  a  carriage 
and  walking  through  brass  bazaars  and  fez  bazaars 
and  silk  bazaars  and  rug  bazaars  and  silver  bazaars 
and  leather  bazaars  and  saddle  bazaars,  and  at  least 
two  hundred  and  seven  other  bazaars,  had  told  on 
him.  When  I  spoke  cheeringly  he  merely  grunted 
and  reached  for  something  in  a  glass  which,  if  it  tasted 
as  it  smelled,  was  not  calculated  to  improve  his  tem- 
per. When  I  sat  down  beside  him  he  did  not  seem 
over  cordial. 

Then,  quite  casually,  I  asked  him  if  he  wouldn't 
execute  a  little  commission  for  me  in  the  bazaars; 
there  were  a  few  trifles  I  had  overlooked:  another 
coffee-set,  for  instance — something  for  a  friend  at 
home;    I  had  faith  in  his  (the  Apostle's)  taste. 

It  seemed  a  reasonable  request,   and  I  made  it 

247 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


politely  enough;  but  the  Apostle  became  suddenly 
violent.     He  said: 

' ' Damn  the  bazaars !  I'm  full  of  brass  and  Oriental 
rugs  and  bric-a-brac.  I  never  want  to  hear  of  a 
bazaar  again.  I  want  to  give  away  the  junk  I've 
already  bought,  and  get  back  to  the  ship."  Which 
we  knew  he  didn't  mean,  for  he  had  put  in  weary 
hours  acquiring  those  things,  inspired  with  a  large 
generosity  for  loved  ones  at  home. 

The  Colonel  came  drifting  along  just  then — un- 
ruffled, debonair — apparently  unwearied  by  the  day's 
round.  Nothing  disturbs  the  Colonel.  If  he  should 
outwear  the  century,  he  would  still  be  as  blithe  of 
speech  and  manner  as  he  is  to-day  at — dear  me,  how 
old  is  the  Colonel?  Is  he  thirty?  Is  he  fifty?  He 
might  be  either  of  those  ages  or  at  any  mile-post 
between. 

He  stood  now,  looking  down  at  the  Apostle  and  his 
cup  of  poison.     Then,  with  a  coaxing  smile: 

**  Match  you,  Joe — ^my  plunder  against  yours — 
just  once." 

The  Apostle  looked  up  with  a  perfectly  divine  sneer. 

''Yes,  you  will — I  think  I  see  myself!" 

The  Colonel  slapped  a  coin  on  the  table  briskly. 

"Come  on,  Joe — we  never  matched  for  bric-a-brac 
before.     Let's  be  game — just  this  time." 

What  was  the  use  ?  The  Apostle  resisted — at  first 
violently,  then  feebly — then  he  matched — and  lost. 

For  a  moment  he  could  hardly  realize  the  extent 
of  his  disaster.  Then  he  reached  for  the  mixture 
in  front  of  him,  swallowed  it,  gagged,  and  choked 
alarmingly.     Wheh  he  could  get  his  voice,  he  said: 

248 


^)^0M^»   foo>Rr>» 


ASKED    HIM    IF    HE    WOULDN  T    EXECUTE  A  LITTLE    COMMISSION 
FOR    ME    IN    THE    BAZAARS 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


''I'm  the  hellfiredest  fool  in  Syria.  I  walked  four 
hundred  miles  to  buy  those  things." 

The  Horse-Doctor  regarded  him  thoughtfully. 

"You  always  interest  me,"  he  said.  **I  don't 
know  whether  it's  your  shape  or  your  mental  habi- 
tudes.    Both  are  so  peculiar." 

After  which  we  left  the  Apostle — ^that  is,  we  stood 
from  under  and  went  in  to  dinner. 

The  Apostle  is  a  good  traveller,  however — all  the 
Reprobates  are.  They  take  things  as  they  find  them, 
which  cannot  be  said  for  all  of  our  people.  One 
wonders  what  some  of  them  expected  in  Damascus — 
probably  steamer  fare  and  New  York  hotel  accommo- 
dations.    I  judge  this  from  their  remarks. 

As  a  matter  of  fact,  we  are  at  the  best  hotel  in 
Damascus,  and  the  hotel  people  are  racking  their 
bodies  and  risking  their  souls  to  give  us  the  best  they 
know.  A  traveller  cannot  get  better  than  the  best — 
even  in  heaven.  Travelling  alone  in  any  strange 
land,  he  is  more  likely  to  get  the  worst.  Yet  the  real 
traveller  will  make  the  best  of  what  he  finds,  and  do 
better  when  he  finds  he  can.  But  these  malcontents 
of  ours  have  been  pampered  and  spoiled  by  that 
steamer  until  they  expect  nothing  short  of  perfection 
—  their  kind  of  perfection  —  wherever  they  set  foot. 
They  are  so  disturbed  over  the  fact  that  the  bill-of- 
fare  is  unusual  and  not  adjusted  to  their  tastes  that 
they  are  not  enjoying  the  sights,  and  want  to  clear 
out,  forthwith.  They  have  been  in  Damascus  a 
little  more  than  a  day;  they  want  to  go  now.  This 
old  race  has  stood  it  five  thousand  years  or  more. 
These  ship-dwellers  can't  stand  it  two  days  without 

250 


Discontented  Pilgrims 


complaint.  I  don't  want  to  be  severe,  but  such 
travellers  tire  me.  I  suppose  the  bill-of-fare  in  heaven 
won't  please  them.  I  hope  not,  if  I'm  invited  to 
remain  there — any  length  of  time,  I  mean. 

The  rest  of  us  are  having  great  enjoyment.  We  like 
everything,  and  we  eat  most  of  it.  There  are  any 
number  of  dried  fruits  and  nuts  and  fine  juicy  oranges 
always  on  the  table,  strung  down  the  centre  —  its 
full  length.  And  even  if  the  meats  are  a  bit  queer, 
they  are  by  no  means  bad.  We  whoop  up  the  bill-of- 
fare,  and  go  through  it  forward  and  backward  and 
diagonally,  working  from  both  ends  toward  the  centre, 
and  back  again  if  we  feel  like  it.  We  have  fruit  and 
nuts  piled  by  our  plates  and  on  our  plates  all  through 
the  meal.  We  don't  get  tired  of  Damascus.  We 
could  stay  here  and  start  a  famine.  What  will  these 
grumblers  do  in  heaven,  where  very  likely  there  isn't 
a  single  dish  they  ever  heard  of  before? 

In  the  matter  of  wines,  however,  I  am  conserva- 
tive. You  see,  Mohammed  forbade  the  use  of  spir- 
ituous beverages  by  the  faithful,  and  liquor  forms  no 
part  of  their  long,  symphonic  rhyme.  They  don't 
drink  it  themselves;    they  only  make  it  for  visitors. 

It  would  require  no  command  of  the  Prophet  to 
make  me  abstain  from  it.  I  have  tried  their  vintage. 
I  tried  one  brand  called  the  "Wine  of  Ephesus." 
The  name  conjured  visions ;  so  did  the  wine,  but  they 
were  not  the  same  visions.  The  name  suggested  ban- 
quets in  marble  halls,  where  gentlemen  and  ladies 
of  the  old  days  reclined  on  rich  divans  and  were 
served  by  slaves  on  bended  knee.  The  wine  itself — 
the   taste   of   it,  I   mean — suggested  a  combination 

251 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


of  hard  cider  and  kerosene,  with  a  hurry  call  for  the 
doctor. 

I  was  coy  about  the  wines  of  the  East  after  that, 
but  by-and-by  I  tried  another  brand — a  different 
color  with  a  different  name.  This  time  it  was  '  *  Nectar 
of  Heliopolis."  They  had  curious  ideas  of  nectar  in 
Heliopolis.  Still,  it  was  better  than  the  Wine  of 
Ephesus.  Hair-oil  is  always  better  than  kerosene  in 
a  mixture  like  that — but  not  much  better.  The  fla- 
vor did  not  invite  debauch. 

This  is  Sunday  (the  Christian  Sunday),  and  I  have 
been  out  for  an  early  morning  walk.  I  took  the  trol- 
ley that  starts  near  the  hotel.  I  did  not  care  for  a 
trolley  excursion,  but  I  wanted  to  see  what  a  Damas- 
cus trolley  is  like  and  where  it  went.  It  isn't  like 
anything  in  particular,  and  it  didn't  go  anywhere — 
not  while  I  was  on  it. 

I  noticed  that  it  was  divided  into  three  sections, 
and  I  climbed  into  the  front  one.  The  conductor 
motioned  to  me,  and  I  understood  that  I  had  made 
a  wrong  selection,  somehow.  A  woman,  veiled  and 
bangled,  climbed  aboard  just  then,  and  I  understood. 
I  was  in  the  women's  section — a  thing  not  allowed 
in  Damascus.  So  I  got  back  into  the  rear  section, 
but  that  wouldn't  do,  either.  The  conductor  was 
motioning  again. 

I  comprehended  at  length.  The  rear  compartment 
was  second  class.  He  wanted  me  to  go  in  style.  So 
I  got  into  the  middle  compartment  and  gave  him  a  tin 
medal,  and  got  two  or  three  similar  ones  in  change, 
and  sat  there  waiting  for  the  procession  to  move. 

252 


Discontented  Pilgrims 


I  waited  a  good  while.  There  was  an  Arabic  inscrip- 
tion on  the  back  of  the  seats  in  front  of  me — in  the 
place  where,  in  America,  it  says,  ''Wait  for  the  car 
to  stop."  I  suppose  it  says,  "Wait  for  the  car  to 
start"  in  Damascus.  We  did  that.  The  conductor 
dozed. 

Now  and  then  somebody  climbed  on,  but  the  arri- 
vals were  infrequent.  I  wondered  if  we  were  waiting 
for  a  load.  It  would  take  a  week  to  fill  up,  at  that 
rate.  I  looked  at  my  watch  now  and  then.  The 
others  went  to  sleep.  That  is  about  the  difference 
between  the  East  and  the  West.  The  West  counts 
the  time;  for  the  East  it  has  no  existence.  Moments, 
hours,  months  mean  nothing  to  the  East.  The  word 
hurry  is  not  of  her  language.  She  drives  her  horses 
fast,  but  merely  for  pleasure,  not  haste.  She  has 
constructed  this  trolley,  but  merely  for  style.  It 
doesn't  really  serve  any  useful  purpose. 

We  moved  a  little  by-and-by,  and  I  had  hopes. 
They  were  premature.  We  crawled  up  in  front  of  a 
coffee-house  where  a  lot  of  turbans  and  fezzes  were 
gathered  outside,  over  tiny  cups  and  hubble-bubble 
pipes;  then  we  stopped.  Our  conductor  and  motor- 
man  got  off  and  leaned  against  an  almond-tree  and 
began  gossiping  with  friends.  Finally  coffee  came 
out  to  them,  and  pipes,  and  they  squatted  down  to 
smoke. 

I  finished  my  ride  then;  I  shall  always  wonder 
where  those  other  passengers  thought  they  were 
going,  and  if  they  ever  got  there. 

I  followed  down  a  narrow  street,  and  came  to  a 
succession  of  tiny  work-shops.  It  was  then  I  discov- 
17  253 


The  Ship -'Dwellers 


ered  what  a  man's  feet  are  for — that  is,  some  uses  I 
had  not  known  before.  They  are  to  assist  the  hands 
in  performing  mechanical  labor.  All  mechanics  work 
barefooted  here.  They  sit  fiat  on  the  floor  or  ground, 
with  their  various  appliances  in  front  of  them,  and 
there  is  scarcely  any  operation  in  which  the  feet  do 
not  take  part.  I  came  to  a  turning-lathe — a  whole 
row  of  turning-lathes — tiny,  crude  affairs,  down  on 
the  ground,  of  course,  driven  back  and  forth  with  a 
bow  and  a  string.  The  workman  held  the  bow  in  one 
hand,  while  the  other  hand,  assisted  by  the  foot, 
guided  the  cutting  tool.  It  would  never  occur  to 
these  workmen  to  put  the  lathe  higher  in  the  air  and 
attach  a  treadle,  leaving  both  hands  free  to  guide  the 
tool. 

Their  sawing  is  the  crudest  process  imaginable. 
They  have  no  trestles  or  even  saw-bucks.  They  have 
only  a  slanting  stick  stuck  in  the  ground,  and  against 
this,  with  their  feet  and  one  hand,  they  hold  the  piece 
to  be  sawed,  while  the  other  hand  runs  the  earliest 
saw  ever  made — the  kind  Noah  used  when  he  built 
the  Ark.  Sometimes  a  sawyer  has  a  helper — a  boy 
who  pushes  and  pulls  as  the  saw  runs  back  and  forth. 

I  bought  a  Sunday-morning  paper.  It  does  not 
resemble  the  sixty-four-page  New  York  Sunday  dailies. 
It  consists  of  four  small  pages,  printed  in  wriggly 
animalculae  and  other  aquaria,  and  contains  news 
four  years  old— or  four  hundred,  it  does  not  matter. 
Possibly  it  denounces  the  sultan — it  is  proper  to  do 
that  just  now — but  I  think  not.  That  would  be  too 
current.     I  think  it  is  still  denouncing  Constantine. 


XXIX 

DAMASCUS,  THE  GARDEN  BEAUTIFUL 

LATER,  we  drove  to  the  foot  of  Mohammed's  Hill — 
-/  the  hill  from  which  the  Prophet  looked  down  on 
the  Pearl  of  the  East  and  decided  that  as  he  could 
have  only  one  paradise  he  would  wait  for  the  next. 
They  have  built  a  little  tower  to  mark  the  spot  where 
he  rested,  and  we  thought  we  would  climb  up  there. 

We  didn't,  however.  The  carriages  could  only  go 
a  little  way  beyond  the  city  outskirts,  and  when  we 
started  to  climb  that  blistering,  barren  hillside  afoot 
we  changed  our  minds  rapidly.  We  had  permission 
to  go  as  high  as  we  pleased,  but  it  is  of  no  value. 
Anybody  could  give  it.  Laura  and  I  and  a  German 
newspaper  man  were  the  only  ones  who  toiled  up 
high  enough  to  look  down  through  the  mystical  haze 
on  the  vision  Mohammed  saw.  Heavens!  but  it  was 
hot  up  there !  And  this  is  March  —  early  spring ! 
How  those  Quaker  City  pilgrims  stood  it  to  travel 
across  the  Syrian  desert  in  August  I  cannot  imagine. 
In  the  Innocents  I  find  this  observation : 

**The  sun-fiames  shot  down  like  shafts  of  fire  that 
stream  out  of  a  blowpipe.  The  rays  seemed  to  fall  in 
a  steady  deluge  on  my  head  and  pass  downward  like 
rain  from  a  roof." 

That  is  a  white-hot  description,  but  not  too  intense, 
I  think,  for  Syrian  summer-time. 

255  . 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


Another  thing  we  noticed  up  there:  Damascus  is 
growing — in  that  direction  at  least.  Older  than  his- 
tory, the  place  is  actually  having  a  boom.  All  the 
houses  out  that  way  are  new — mud-walled,  but  some 
of  them  quite  pretentious.  They  have  pushed  out 
far  beyond  the  gardens,  across  the  barren  plain,  and 
they  are  climbing  the  still  more  barren  slope.  They 
stand  there  in  the  baking  sun,  unshaded  as  yet  by 
any  living  thing.  One  pities  the  women  shut  up 
behind  those  tiny  barred  windows.  These  places  will 
have  gardens  about  them  some  day.  Already  their 
owners  are  scratching  the  earth  with  their  crooked 
sticks,  and  they  will  plant  and  water  and  make  the 
desert  bloom. 

Being  free  in  the  afternoon,  Laura  and  I  engaged 
Habib  and  a  carriage  and  went  adventuring  on  our 
own  account.  We  let  Habib  manage  the  excursion, 
and  I  shall  always  remember  it  as  a  sweet,  restful 
experience. 

We  visited  a  Moslem  burying-ground  first,  and 
the  tomb  of  Fatima — the  original  Fatima — Moham- 
med's beautiful  daughter,  who  married  a  rival  prophet, 
AH,  yet  sleeps  to-day  with  honor  in  a  little  mosque- 
like tomb.  We  passed  a  tree  said  to  have  been 
planted  by  the  Mohammedan  conqueror  of  Damascus 
nearly  thirteen  hundred  years  ago — an  enormous 
tree,  ten  feet  through  or  more — on  one  side  a  hollow 
which  would  hold  a  dozen  men,  standing. 

Then  at  last  we  came  to  the  gardens  of  Damascus, 
and  got  out  and  walked  among  the  olive-trees  and  the 
peach  and  almond  and  apricot — most  of  them  in 
riotous  bloom.     Summer  cultivation  had  only  just 

256 


Damascus,  the    Garden    Beautiful 

begun,  and  few  workmen  were  about.  Later  the  gar- 
dens will  swarm  with  them,  and  they  will  be  digging  and 
irrigating,  and  afterward  gathering  the  fruit,  preserv- 
ing and  drying  it,  and  sending  it  to  market.  Habib 
showed  us  the  primitive  methods  of  doing  these  things. 

How  sweet  and  quiet  and  fragrant  it  was  there 
among  the  flowering  trees!  In  one  place  a  little  group 
of  Syrian  Christians  were  recreating  (it  being  Sunday), 
playing  some  curious  dulcimer  instrument  and  singing 
a  weird  hymn. 

We  crossed  the  garden,  and  sat  on  the  grass  under 
the  peach-bloom  while  Habib  went  for  the  carriage. 
Sitting  there,  we  realized  that  the  guide-book  had 
been  only  fair  to  Damascus. 

"For  miles  around  it  is  a  wilderness  of  gardens — gardens 
with  roses  among  the  tangled  shrubberies,  and  with  fruit  on 
the  branches  overhead.  Everywhere  among  the  trees  the 
murmur  of  unseen  rivulets  is  heard." 

That  sounds  like  fairyland,  but  it  is  only  Damascus 
— Damascus  in  June,  when  the  fruit  is  ripening  and 
the  water-ways  are  full. 

We  drove  out  of  Damascus  altogether — far  out 
across  a  fertile  plain,  to  the  slopes  of  the  West  Leb- 
anon hills.  Then  turning,  we  watched  the  sun  sHp 
down  the  sky  while  Habib  told  us  many  things. 
Whatever  there  is  to  know,  Habib  knows,  and  to  local- 
ities and  landmarks  he  fitted  stories  and  traditions 
which  brought  back  all  the  old  atmosphere  and  made 
this  Damascus  the  Damascus  of  fable  and  dreams. 

Habib  pointed  out  landmarks  near  and  far — min- 
arets of  the  great  mosque,  the  direction  of  Jerusalem, 
of  Mecca;  he  showed  us  where  the  waters  of  Damascus 

257 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


rise  and  where  they  waste  into  the  desert  sands.  To 
the  westward  was  Mount  Hermon ;  southward  came 
the  lands  of  Naphtali,  and  Bashan  where  the  giant 
Og  once  reigned.  All  below  us  lay  Palestine ;  Mount 
Hermon  was  the  watch-tower,  Damascus  the  capital 
of  the  North. 

Damascus  in  the  sunset,  its  domes  and  minarets 
lifting  above  the  lacing  green!  There  is  no  more 
beautiful  picture  in  the  world  than  that.  We  turned 
to  it  again  and  again  when  every  other  interest  had 
waned — the  jewel,  the  ''pearl  set  in  emeralds,"  on 
the  desert's  edge.  Laura  and  I  will  always  remem- 
ber that  Sunday  evening  vision  of  the  old  city,  the 
things  that  Habib  told  us,  and  the  drive  home. 

Next  to  the  city  itself  I  think  the  desert  interested 
us.  It  begins  just  a  little  beyond  Damascus,  Habib 
said,  and  stretches  the  length  of  the  Red  Sea  and  to 
the  Persian  Gulf.  A  thousand  miles  down  its  length 
lies  Mecca,  to  which  pilgrims  have  journeyed  for  ages 
— a  horde  of  them  every  year.  There  is  a  railway, 
now,  as  far  as  Tebook,  but  Mecca  is  still  six  hundred 
miles  beyond.  The  great  annual  pilgrimages,  made 
up  of  the  faithful  from  all  over  Asia  and  portions  of 
Europe  and  Africa,  depart  from  Damascus,  and  those 
that  survive  it  return  after  long  months  of  wasting 
desert  travel.  Habib  said  that  a  great  pilgrimage 
was  returning  now ;  the  city  was  full  of  holy  men. 

Then  he  told  us  about  the  dromedary  mail  that 
crosses  the  desert  from  Damascus  to  Bagdad,  like  a 
through  express.  It  is  about  five  hundred  miles 
across  as  the  stork  flies,  but  the  dromedary  is  not 
disturbed  by  distance.     He  destroys  it  at  the  rate  of 

258 


Damascus,  the    Garden   Beautiful 


fifteen  miles  an  hour,  and  capers  in  fresh  and  smiling 
at  the  other  end.  Habib  did  not  advise  dromedary 
travel.  It  is  very  rough,  he  said.  Nothing  but  an 
Arab  trained  to  the  business  could  stand  it.  Once 
an  Englishman  wanted  to  go  through  by  the  drome- 
dary mail,  and  did  go,  though  they  implored  him  to 
travel  in  the  regular  way.  He  got  through  all  right, 
but  his  liver  and  his  heart  had  changed  places,  and 
it  took  three  doctors  seven  days  to  rearrange  his 
works. 

A  multitude  was  pouring  out  of  the  city  when  we 
reached  the  gates — dwellers  in  the  lands  about.  We 
entered  and  turned  aside  into  quiet  streets,  the  twi- 
light gathering  about  mysterious  doorways  and  in 
dim  shops  and  stalls,  where  were  bowed,  turbaned 
men  who  never  seemed  to  sell  anything,  or  to  want 
to  sell  anything — who  barely  noticed  us  as  we  passed 
through  the  Grand  Bazaar,  where  it  was  getting  dark, 
and  all  the  drowsy  merchants  of  all  the  drowsy  mer- 
chandise were  like  still  shadows  that  only  moved  a 
little  to  let  us  pass.  Out  again  into  streets  that  were 
full  of  dusk,  and  dim  flitting  figures  and  subdued 
sounds. 

All  at  once  I  caught  sight  of  a  black  stone  jar 
hanging  at  the  door  of  a  very  small  and  dusky  booth. 
It  was  such  a  jar  as  is  used  in  Damascus  to-day  for 
water — was  used  there  in  the  time  of  Abraham. 

''Habib!" 

I  had  wanted  one  of  the  pots  from  the  first.  The 
carriage  stops  instantly. 

' '  Habib !    That  black  water-jar — a  small  one ! " 

I  had  meant  to  bargain  for  it  myself,  but  Habib  is 

259 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


ahead  of  me.  He  scorns  to  bargain  for  such  a  trifle, 
and  with  such  a  merchant.  He  merely  seizes  the 
jar,  says  a  guttural  word  or  two  in  whatever  tongue 
the  man  knows,  flings  him  a  paltry  coin,  and  is  back 
in  the  carriage,  directing  our  course  along  the  darken- 
ing, narrow  way. 

What  a  wonderful  life  the  dark  is  bringing  out! 
There,  in  front  of  that  coffee-house,  that  row  of  men 
smoking  nargileh — surely  they  are  magicians,  every 
one.  *'  That  silent  group  with  shaven  faces  and  snowy 
beards:  who  are  they,  Habib?" 

"Mongolians,"  he  says.  *' Pilgrims  returning  from 
Mecca.  They  live  far  over  to  the  north  of  China,  but 
still  are  followers  of  the  Prophet."  The  scope  of 
Islamism  is  wide — oh  yes,  very  wide,  and  increasing. 
That  group  gathered  at  the  fountain — their  dress, 
their  faces — 

"Habib!" 

The  horses  come  up  with  a  jerk. 

"A  copper  water-jar,  Habib!  An  old,  old  man  is 
filling  it— such  a  strange  pattern" — 

Habib  is  down  instantly,  and  amid  the  crowd. 
Cautiously  I  follow.  The  old  man  is  stooped,  wrin- 
kled, travel-worn.  His  robe  and  his  turban  are  full 
of  dust.  He  is  listening  to  Habib  and  replying 
briefly. 

Habib  explains.  The  pilgrim  is  returning  with  it 
from  Mecca;  it  is  very  old;  he  cannot  part  with  it. 
My  heart  sinks ;  every  word  adds  value  to  the  treas- 
ure. Habib  tries  again,  while  I  touch  the  ancient, 
curiously  wrought  jar  lovingly.  The  pilgrim  draws 
away.     He  will  hardly  allow  me  even  this  comfort. 

260 


Damascus,  the    Garden   Beautiful 

We  return  to  the  carriage  sadly.  The  driver  starts. 
Some  one  comes  running  behind,  calling.  Again  we 
stop;  a  boy  calls  something  to  Habib. 

"He  will  sell,"  Habib  laughs,  "and  why  not? 
He  demands  a  napoleon.  Of  course  you  will  not 
give  it!" 

Oh,  coward  heart!  I  cannot,  after  that.  I  have 
the  napoleon  and  the  desire,  but  I  cannot  appear  a 
fool  before  Habib. 

"No,  it  is  too  much.     Drive  on." 

We  dash  forward;  the  East  closes  behind  us;  the 
opportunity  is  forever  lost. 

If  one  could  only  be  brave  at  the  instant !  All  my 
days  shall  I  recall  the  group  at  the  fountain:  that 
bent,  travel  -  stained  pilgrim;  that  strangely  fash- 
ioned water  -  pot  which  perhaps  came  down  to  him 
from  patriarchal  days.  How  many  journeys  to  Mecca 
had  it  made;  how  many  times  had  it  moistened  the 
parching  lips  of  some  way-worn  pilgrim  dragging 
across  the  burning  sand;  how  many  times  had  it 
furnished  water  for  absolution  before  the  prayer  in 
the  desert!  And  all  this  could  have  been  mine.  For 
a  paltry  napoleon  I  could  have  had  the  talisman  for 
my  own — all  the  wonder  of  the  East,  its  music,  its 
mystery,  its  superstition ;  I  could  have  fondled  it  and 
gazed  on  it  and  re-created  each  picture  at  a  touch. 

Oh,  Habib,  Habib,  may  the  Prophet  forgive  you; 
for,  alas,  I  never  can! 

At  the  station  next  morning  a  great  horde  of  pil- 
grims were  waiting  for  the  train  which  would  bear 
them  to  Beirut — Mongolians,  many  of  them,  who  had 
been  on  the  long,    long,   pilgrimage  over  land  and 

261 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


sea.  At  Beirut,  we  were  told,  seven  steamers  were 
waiting  to  take  them  on  the  next  stage  of  their 
homeward  journey.  What  a  weary  way  they  had 
yet  to  travel! 

They  were  all  loaded  down  with  baggage.  They 
had  their  bundles,  clothing,  quilts,  water-bottles: 
and  I  wandered  about  among  them  vainly  hoping  to 
find  my  pilgrim  of  the  copper  pot.  Hopeless,  in- 
deed. There  were  pots  in  plenty,  but  they  were  all 
new  or  unsightly  things. 

All  the  pilgrims  were  old  men,  for  the  Moslem,  like 
most  of  the  rest  of  us,  puts  off  his  spiritual  climax 
until  he  has  acquired  his  material  account.  He  has 
to,  in  fact ;  for,  even  going  the  poorest  way  and  main- 
ly afoot,  a  journey  of  ten  or  twelve  thousand  miles 
across  mountain  and  desert,  wilderness  and  wave  can- 
not be  made  without  substance. 

We  took  a  goodly  number  of  them  on  our  train. 
Freight-cars  crowded  with  them  were  attached  behind, 
and  we  crawled  across  the  mountains  with  that  cargo 
of  holy  men,  who  poured  out  at  every  other  station 
and  prostrated  themselves,  facing  Mecca,  to  pray  for 
our  destruction.  At  least,  I  suppose  they  did  that. 
I  know  they  made  a  most  imposing  spectacle  at  their 
devotions,  and  the  Moslem  would  hardly  overlook 
an  enemy  in  such  easy  praying  distance. 

However,  we  crossed  the  steeps,  skirted  the 
precipices  safely  enough,  and  by-and-by  a  blue  harbor 
lay  below,  and  in  it,  like  a  fair  picture,  the  ship — 
home.  We  had  been  gone  less  than  a  week — it 
seemed  a  year. 


XXX 

WHERE   PILGRIMS   GATHER   IN 

AT  some  time  last  night  we  crossed  over  the  spot 
i  where  the  Lord  stirred  up  a  mighty  tempest  and 
a  great  fish  to  punish  Jonah,  and  this  morning  at  day- 
break we  were  in  the  harbor  of  Jaffa,  **the  beautiful," 
from  which  port  Jonah  sailed  on  that  remarkable 
cruise. 

We  were  not  the  only  ones  there.  Two  other  great 
excursion  steamers  lay  at  anchor,  the  Arabic  and  the 
Moltke,  their  decks  filled  with  our  fellow-countrymen, 
and  I  think  the  several  parties  of  ship-dwellers  took 
more  interest  in  looking  at  one  another,  and  in  com- 
paring the  appearance  of  their  respective  vessels,  than 
in  the  rare  vision  of  Jaffa  aglow  with  morning.  Three 
ship-loads  at  once !  It  seemed  like  a  good  deal  of  an 
invasion  to  land  on  these  sacred  shores.  But  then 
we  remembered  how  many  invasions  had  landed  at 
Jaffa — how  Alexander  and  Titus  had  been  there  be- 
fore us,  besides  all  the  crusades — so  a  modest  scourge 
like  ours  would  hardly  matter.  As  for  that  military 
butcher.  Napoleon,  who  a  little  more  than  a  century 
ago  murdered  his  way  through  this  inoffending  land, 
he  shot  four  thousand  Turkish  prisoners  here  on 
the  Jaffa  sands,  after  accepting  their  surrender  under 
guarantee  of  protection.  We  promised  ourselves  that 
we  would  do  nothing  like  that.     We  might  destroy 

263 


The   Ship-  Dwellers 


THE    PATRIARCH    KNEW    ALL    ABOUT    JAFFA 


a  pedler  now  and  then,  or  a  baksheesh  fiend;  but 
four  thousand,  even  of  that  breed,  would  be  too  heavy 
a  contract. 

The  Patriarch  knew  all  about  JafTa.  It  is  one  of 
his  special  landmarks,  being  the  chief  seaport  of  the 
Phoenicians,  the  one  place  they  never  really  surren- 
dered. A  large  share  of  the  vast  traffic  that  went  in 
and  out  of  Palestine  in  the  old  days  went  by  Jaffa, 
and  a  great  deal  goes  that  way  still.  The  cedar- 
wood  from  Lebanon,  used  in  vSolomon's  Temple,  was 
brought  by  water  to  this  port ;  the  treasure  and  rich 
goods  that  went  down  to  Jerusalem  in  the  day  of  her 
ancient  glory  all  came  this  way;  her  conquerors 
landed    here.     The  blade   and   brand   prepared    for 

264 


Where    Pilgrims    Gather  In 


Jerusalem  were  tried  experimentally  on  Jaffa.  Ac- 
cording to  Josephus,  eighty  thousand  of  her  inhabi- 
tants perished  at  one  time.  Yet  Jaffa  has  survived. 
Her  harbor,  which  is  not  really  a  harbor  at  all,  but 
merely  an  anchorage,  with  a  landing  dangerous  and 
uncertain,  has  still  been  sufficient  to  keep  her  the 
chief  seaport  of  Judea. 

There  is  another  reason  for  Jaffa's  survival.  Be- 
yond her  hills  lie  the  sacred  cities  of  Jerusalem  and 
Bethlehem.  The  fields  that  knew  Ruth  and  Ben- 
jamin and  a  man  named  Jesus  lie  also  there.  From 
Jaffa  in  every  direction  stretch  lands  made  memorable 
by  stories  and  traditions  in  which  the  God  and  the 
prophets  of  at  least  three  religions  are  intimately 
concerned.  So  during  long  centuries  Jaffa  has  been 
a  holy  gateway,  and  through  its  portals  the  tide 
of  pilgrimage  has  never  ceased  to  flow. 

Some  of  us  who  were  to  put  in  full  time  in  Egypt 
would  have  only  a  few  days  in  the  Holy  Land,  and 
we  were  off  the  ship  presently,  being  pulled  through 
the  turquoise  water  by  boatmen  who  sang  a  barbaric 
chorus  as  they  bent  over  their  huge,  clumsy  oars. 
Then  we  were  ashore  and  in  carriages,  and  in  another 
moment  were  "jumping  through  Jaffa,"  as  one  of  the 
party  expressed  it,  in  a  way  that  made  events  and 
landmarks  flit  together  like  the  spokes  of  a  wheel. 

We  visited  the  tomb  of  Dorcas,  whom  Peter  raised 
from  the  dead,  though  for  some  reason  we  did  not 
feel  a  positive  conviction  that  it  was  the  very  tomb — 
perhaps  because  we  did  not  have  time  to  get  up  a 
conviction — and  we  called  at  the  house  of  Simon  the 
Tanner.     It  was  with  Simon,  "whose  house  is  by  the 

265 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


seaside,"  that  Peter  lodged  when  he  had  his  "vision 
of  tolerance,"  in  which  it  was  made  known  to  him  that 
"God  is  no  respecter  of  persons,  but  only  of  righteous- 
ness." It  is  truly  by  the  seaside,  and  there  is  an 
ancient  tanner's  vat  in  the  court-yard.  But  I  hope  the 
place  was  cleaner  when  Peter  lodged  there  than  it  is 
now.  One  had  to  step  carefully,  and,  though  it  did 
not  smell  of  a  tanyard,  it  did  of  several  other  things. 
Many  travellers,  including  Dean  Stanley,  have  ac- 
cepted this  as  the  veritable  house  where  Simon  dwelt 
and  St.  Peter  lodged.  Those  people  ought  to  get  to- 
gether and  have  it  cleaned  up.  I  could  believe  in 
it  then  myself. 

Jaffa,  as  a  whole,  could  stand  the  scrub-brush  and 
the  hose.  It  is  not  "the  beautiful"  from  within.  It 
is  wretchedly  unbeautiful,  though  just  as  we  were 
getting  ready  to  leave  it  we  did  have  one  genuine 
vision.  From  the  enclosures  of  the  Greek  Church 
we  looked  across  an  interminable  orange-grove,  in 
which  the  trees  seemed  mere  shrubs,  but  were  literally 
massed  with  golden  fruit — the  whole  blending  away 
into  tinted  haze  and  towering  palms.  No  blight,  no 
vileness,  no  inodorous  breath,  but  only  the  dreamlit 
mist  and  the  laden  trees — the  Orient  of  our  long  ago. 

One  might  reasonably  suppose  that,  as  often  as 
parties  like  ours  travel  over  the  railway  that  potters 
along  from  Jaffa  to  Jerusalem,  there  would  be  no 
commotion,  no  controversy  with  the  officials — that 
the  guard  would  only  need  to  come  in  and  check  up 
our  tickets  and  let  us  go. 

Nothing  of  the  kind ;  every  such  'departure  as  ours 

266 


Where    Pilgrims    Gather   In 


is  a  function,  an  occasion — an  entirely  new  proposi- 
tion, to  be  considered  and  threshed  out  in  a  separate 
and  distinct  fashion.  Before  we  were  fairly  seated 
in  the  little  coach  provided,  dark-skinned  men  came 
in  one  after  another  to  look  us  over  and  get  wildly 
excited — over  our  beauty,  perhaps;  I  could  discover 
nothing  else  unusual  about  us.  They  would  wave  their 
hands  and  carry  on,  first  inside  and  then  on  the 
platform,  where  they  would  seem  to  settle  it.  When 
they  had  paid  us  several  visits  of  this  kind,  they 
locked  us  in  and  went  away,  and  we  expected  to 
start. 

Not  at  all;  they  came  back  presently  and  did  it 
all  over  again,  only  louder.  Then  our  dragoman 
appeared,  and  bloodshed  seemed  imminent.  When 
they  went  away  again  he  said  it  was  nothing — ^just 
the  usual  business  of  getting  started. 

By-and-by  some  of  us  discovered  that  our  bags 
had  not  been  put  on  the  train,  so  we  drifted  out  to 
look  for  them.  We  found  them  here  and  there, 
with  from  two  to  seven  miscreants  battling  over 
each  as  to  which  should  have  the  piastre  or  two  of 
baksheesh  collectible  for  handing  our  things  from 
the  carriage  to  the  train.  Such  is  the  manner  of 
graft  in  the  Holy  Land.  It  lacks  organization  and 
does  not  command  respect. 

The  station  was  a  hot,  thirsty  place.  We  loaded 
up  with  baskets  of  oranges,  the  great,  sweet,  juicy 
oranges  of  Jaffa — the  finest  oranges  in  the  world,  I  am 
sure — then  we  forgot  all  our  delays  and  troubles, 
for  we  were  moving  out  through  the  groves  and  gar- 
dens of  the  suburbs,  entering  the  Plains  of  Sharon — 

267 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


^*a  fold  for  flocks,  a  fertile  land,  blossoming  as  the 
rose." 

That  old  phrase  expresses  it  exactly.  I  have  never 
seen  a  place  that  so  completely  conveyed  the  idea 
of  fertility  as  those  teeming,  haze-haunted  plains  of 
Sharon.  Level  as  a  floor,  the  soil  dark,  loose,  and 
loamy ;  here  green  with  young  wheat,  there  populous 
with  labor — men  and  women,  boys  and  girls,  dressed 
in  the  old,  old  dress,  tilling  the  fields  in  the  old,  old 
manner;  flocks  and  herds  tended  by  such  shepherds 
as  saw  the  Star  rise  over  Bethlehem;  girls  carrying 
water  -  jars  on  their  heads ;  camel  trains  swinging 
across  the  horizon  —  a  complete  picture  of  primal 
husbandry,  it  was — a  vast  allegory  of  increase.  I  have 
seen  agricultural  and  pastoral  life  on  a  large  scale  in 
America,  where  we  do  all  of  the  things  with  machin- 
ery and  many  of  them  with  steam,  and  would  find  it 
hard  to  plough  with  a  camel  and  a  crooked  stick; 
but  I  have  somehow  never  felt  such  a  sense  of  tillage 
and  production — of  communing  with  mother  earth 
and  drawing  life  and  sustenance  from  her  bosom — as 
came  to  me  there  crossing  the  Plains  of  Sharon,  the 
garden  of  Syria. 

It  is  a  goodly  tract  for  that  country — about  fifty 
miles  long  and  from  six  to  fifteen  wide.  The  tribes 
of  Dan  and  Manasseh  owned  it  in  the  old  days,  and 
to  look  out  of  the  car-window  at  their  descendants 
is  to  see  those  first  families  that  Joshua  settled  there, 
for  they  have  never  changed. 

Our  dragoman  began  to  point  out  sites  and  land- 
marks. Here  was  the  Plain  of  Joshua,  where  Samson 
made  firebrands  of  three  hundred  foxes  and  destroyed 

268 


Where    Pilgrims    Gather   In 


the  standing  com  of  the  Philistines.  The  tower 
ahead  is  at  Ramleh,  and  was  built  by  the  crusaders 
nearly  a  thousand  years  ago  —  Ramleh  being  the 
Arimathea  where  lived  Joseph,  who  provided  the 
Saviour  with  a  sepulchre.  Also,  it  is  said  to  be  the 
place  where  in  the  days  when  Samuel  judged  Israel 
the  Jews  besought  him  for  a  king,  and  acquired  Saul 
and  the  line  of  David  and  Solomon  as  a  result.  To 
the  eastward  lies  the  Valley  of  Ajalon,  where  Joshua 
stopped  the  astronomical  clock  for  the  only  time  in 
a  million  ages,  that  he  might  slaughter  some  remain- 
ing Amorites  before  dark. 

We  are  out  of  the  Plains  of  Sharon  by  this  time, 
running  through  a  profitless-looking  country,  mostly 
rock  and  barren,  hardly  worth  fighting  over,  it  would 
seem.  Yet  there  were  plenty  of  people  to  be  killed 
here  in  the  old  days,  and  as  late  as  fifteen  hundred 
years  after  Joshua  the  Roman  Emperor  Hadrian 
slaughtered  so  many  Jews  at  Bittir  (a  place  we  shall 
pass  presently)  that  the  horses  waded  to  their  nostrils 
in  blood,  and  a  stone  weighing  several  pounds  was 
swept  along  by  the  ruby  tide.  The  guide  told  us  this, 
and  said  if  we  did  not  believe  it  he  could  produce  the 
stone. 

Landmarks  fairly  overlap  one  another.  Here,  at 
Hill  Gezer,  are  the  ruins  of  an  ancient  city  presented 
to  Solomon  by  one  of  his  seven  hundred  fathers-in- 
law.  Yonder  at  Ekron  so  much  history  has  been 
made  that  a  chapter  would  be  required  to  record  even 
a  list  of  the  events.  Ekron  was  one  of  the  important 
cities  which  Joshua  did  not  capture,  perhaps  because 
he  could  not  manage  the  solar  system  permanently. 
18  269 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


The  whole  route  fairly  bristles  with  Bible  names,  and 
we  are  variously  affected.  When  we  are  shown  the 
footprints  of  Joshua  and  Jacob  and  David  and  Solo- 
mon we  are  full  of  interest.  When  we  recall  that  this 
is  also  the  land  of  Phut  and  Cush  and  Buz  and  Jid- 
laph  and  Pildash  we  are  moved  almost  to  tears. 

For  those  last  must  have  been  worthy  men.  The 
Bible  records  nothing  against  them,  which  is  more 
than  can  be  said  of  the  others  named.  Take  Jacob, 
for  instance.  I  have  searched  carefully,  and  I  fail 
to  find  anything  to  his  credit  beyond  the  fact  that 
he  procreated  the  Lord's  chosen  people.  I  do  find 
that  he  deceived  his  father,  defrauded  his  brother, 
outmanoeuvred  his  rascally  father-in-law,  and  was  a 
craven  at  last  before  Esau,  who  had  been  rewarded 
for  his  manhood  and  forgiveness  and  wrongs  by  being 
classed  with  the  Ishmaelites,  a  name  that  carries  with 
it  a  reproach  to  this  day. 

Then  there  is  Solomon.  We  need  not  go  into  the 
matter  of  his  thousand  wives  and  pretty  favorites. 
Long  ago  we  condoned  that  trifling  irregularity  as 
incident  to  the  period  —  related  in  some  occult  but 
perfectly  reasonable  way  to  great  wisdom.  No,  the 
wives  are  all  right — also  the  near-wives,  we  have 
swallowed  those,  too;  but  then  there  comes  in  his 
heresy,  his  idolatry — all  those  temples  built  to  hea- 
then gods  when  he  had  become  magnificent  and 
mighty  and  full  of  years.  There  was  that  altar 
which  he  set  up  to  Moloch  on  the  hill  outside  of 
Jerusalem  (called  to  this  day  the  Hill  of  Offence), 
an  altar  for  the  sacrifice  of  children  by  fire.  Even 
Tiberius  Caesar  and  Nero  did  not  go  as  far  as  that. 

270 


Where   Pilgrims    Gather   In 


I'm  sorry,  and  I  shall  be  damned  for  it,  no  doubt, 
but  I  think,  on  the  whole,  in  the  language  of  the  Diplo- 
mat, I  shall  have  to  "pass  Solomon  up."  Never 
mind  about  the  other  two.  Joshua's  record  is  good 
enough  if  one  cares  for  a  slayer  of  women  and  children, 
and  David  was  a  poet — a  supreme  poet,  a  divine  poet 
— which  accounts  for  a  good  deal.  Still,  he  did  not 
need  to  put  the  captured  Moabites  under  saws  and 
harrows  of  iron  and  make  them  walk  through  brick- 
kilns, as  described  in  II.  Samuel  xii:  31,  to  be  pictu- 
resque. Neither  did  he  need  to  kill  Uriah  the  Hittite 
in  order  to  take  his  wife  away  from  him.  Uriah 
would  probably  have  parted  with  her  on  easier  terms. 

It  is  sad  enough  to  reflect  that  the  Bible,  in  its  good, 
old,  relentless  way,  found  it  necessary  to  record  such 
things  as  these  against  our  otherwise  Sunday-school 
heroes  and  models.  Nothing  of  the  sort  is  set  down 
against  Buz  and  Cush  and  Phut  and  Pildash  and 
Jidlaph.  Very  likely  they  were  about  perfect.  I 
wish  I  knew  where  they  sleep. 

The  nearer  one  approaches  Jerusalem  the  more 
barren  and  unproductive  becomes  the  country. 
There  are  olive-groves  and  there  are  cultivated 
fields,  but  there  are  more  of  flinty  hillsides  and  rocky 
steeps.  The  habitations  are  no  longer  collected  in 
villages,  in  the  Syrian  fashion,  but  are  scattered 
here  and  there,  with  wide  sterile  places  between. 
There  would  seem  to  be  not  enough  good  land  in  any 
one  place  to  support  a  village. 

I  suppose  this  is  the  very  home  of  baksheesh.  I 
know  at  every  station  mendicants,  crippled  and  blind 
— always  blind — come  swarming  about,  holding  up 

271 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


piteous  hands  and  repeating  endlessly  the  plaintive 
wail,  "Baksheesh!  bak-sheesh!"  One's  heart  grows 
sick  and  hard  by  turns.  There  are  moments  when 
you  long  for  the  wealth  of  a  Rockefeller  to  give 
all  these  people  a  financial  standing,  and  there  are 
moments  when  you  long  for  a  Gatling-gun  to  turn 
loose  in  their  direction.  We  are  only  weak  and  hu- 
man. We  may  pity  the  hungry  fly  ever  so  much,  but 
we  destroy  him. 

I  think,  by-the-way,  some  of  these  beggars  only  cry 
baksheesh  from  habit,  and  never  expect  to  get  any- 
thing. I  think  so,  because  here  and  there  groups  of 
them  stand  along  the  railway  between  stations,  and 
hold  out  their  hands,  and  voice  the  eternal  refrain  as 
we  sweep  by.  It  is  hardly  likely  that  any  one  ever 
flings  anything  out  of  a  car-window.  Pity  becomes 
too  sluggish  in  the  East  to  get  action  as  promptly 
as  that. 

It  was  toward  evening  when  we  ran  into  a  rather 
modem  little  railway  station,  and  were  told  that 
we  were  ''there."  We  got  out  of  the  train  then,  and 
found  ourselves  in  such  a  howling  mob  of  humanity 
as  I  never  dreamed  could  gather  in  this  drowsy  land. 
We  were  about  the  last  party  of  the  season,  it  seems, 
and  the  porters  and  beggars  and  cabmen  and  general 
riffraff  were  going  to  make  the  most  of  us.  We  were 
seized  and  dragged  and  torn  and  Hfted — our  dragoman 
could  keep  us  together  about  as  well  as  one  cowboy 
could  handle  a  stampeded  herd.  I  have  no  distinct 
recollection  of  how  we  managed  to  reach  the  carriages, 
but  the  first  words  I  heard  after  regaining  conscious- 
ness were: 

272 


Where   Pilgrims    Gather   In 


"That  pool  down  there  is  where  Solomon  was 
anointed  king." 

I  began  to  take  notice  then.  We  were  outside  a 
range  of  lofty  battlemented  walls,  approaching  a  wide 
gate  flanked  by  an  imposing  tower  that  might  belong 
to  the  Middle  Ages.  We  looked  down  on  the  squalid 
pool  of  Gihon,  and  I  tried  to  visualize  the  scene  of 
Solomon's  coronation  there,  which  I  confess  I  found 
difficult.  Then  we  turned  to  the  tower  and  the  en- 
trance to  the  Holy  City. 

'    We  were  entering  Jerusalem  by  the  Jaffa  gate,  and 
the  tower  was  the  Tower  of  David. 


XXXI 

THE    HOLY    CITY 

THIRTY-NINE  hundred  years  ago  it  was  called 
merely  Salem,  and  was  ruled  over  by  Melchisedek, 
who  feasted  Abraham  when  he  returned  from  punishing 
the  four  kings  who  carried  off  his  nephew,  Lot.  Five 
hundred  years  later,  when  Joshua  ravaged  Canaan, 
the  place  was  known  as  Jebusi,  the  stronghold  of 
the  Jebusites,  a  citadel  ''enthroned  on  a  mountain 
fastness"  which  Joshua  failed  to  conquer,' in  spite  of 
the  traditional  promise  to  Israel.  Its  old  name  had 
been  not  altogther  dropped,  and  the  transition  from 
Jebusi-salem  to  Jebu-salem  and  Jerusalem  naturally 
followed. 

It  was  four  hundred  years  after  Joshua's  time  that 
David  brought  the  head  of  Goliath  to  Jerusalem, 
and  fifteen  years  later,  when  he  had  become  king, 
he  took  the  "stronghold  of  Zion,"  smote  the  difficult 
Jebusite  even  to  the  blind  and  the  lame,  and  named 
the  place  the  City  of  David. 

''And  David  said  on  that  day,  whosoever  getteth 
up  to  the  gutter  and  smiteth  the  Jebusites,  and  the 
lame  and  the  blind,  that  are  hated  of  David's  soul,  he 
shall  be  chief  and  captain." 

That  is  not  as  cruel  as  it  sounds.  Those  incapables 
had  no  doubt  been  after  David  for  baksheesh,  and 
he  felt  just  that  way.      I  would  like  to  appoint  a 

274 


The  Holy  City 


few  chiefs  and  captains  of  Jerusalem  on  the  same 
terms. 

But  I  digress.  The  Bible  calls  it  a  "fort,"  and  it 
was  probably  not  much  more  than  that  until  David 
"built  round  about"  and  turned  it  into  a  city,  the 
fame  of  which  extended  to  Hiram,  King  of  Tyre, 
who  sent  carpenters  and  masons  and  materials  to 
David  and  built  him  a  house.  After  which  "David 
took  him  some  more  concubines  and  wives  out  of 
Jerusalem,"  brought  up  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant 
from  Kirjath-jearim,  and  prepared  to  live  happy 
ever  after.  The  Ark  was,  of  course,  very  sacred,  and 
one  Uzzah  was  struck  dead  on  the  way  up  from  Kir- 
jath  for  putting  out  his  hand  to  save  it  when  it  was 
about  to  roll  into  a  ditch. 

It  was  with  David  that  the  glory  of  Jerusalem  as 
a  city  began.  Then  came  Solomon — David's  second 
son  by  Uriah's  wife — wise,  masterful,  and  merciless, 
and  Jerusalem  became  one  of  the  magnificent  cities 
of  the  world.  Under  Solomon  the  Hebrew  race 
became  more  nearly  a  nation  then  ever  before  or 
since.  Solomon  completed  the  Temple  begun  by 
David  on  Mount  Moriah;  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant 
was  duly  installed.  Judaism  had  acquired  head- 
quarters— Israel,  organization,  and  a  capital. 

The  fame  of  the  great  philosopher-poet-king 
spread  to  the  ends  of  the  earth.  The  mighty  from 
many  lands  came  to  hear  his  wisdom  and  to  gaze 
upon  the  magnificence  of  his  court.  The  Queen 
of  vSheba  drifted  in  from  her  far  sunlit  kingdom  with 
offerings  of  gold,  spices,  and  precious  stones.  And 
"she  communed  with  him  of  all  that  was  in  her 

275 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


heart."  That  was  more  than  a  thousand  years 
before  Christ.  Greece  had  no  history  then.  Rome 
had  not  been  even  considered.  Culture  and  splen- 
dor were  at  high-tide  in  the  Far  East.  It  was  the 
golden  age  of  Jerusalem. 

The  full  tide  must  ebb,  and  the  waning  in  Jerusalem 
began  early.  Solomon's  reign  was  a  failure  at  the 
end.  Degenerating  into  a  sensualist  and  an  idolater, 
his  enemies  prevailed  against  him.  The  Lord  ' '  stirred 
up  an  adversary"  in  Hadad  the  Edomite,  who  had  an 
old  grudge.  Also  others,  and  trouble  followed.  The 
nation  was  divided.  Revolt,  civil  wars,  and  abound- 
ing iniquities  dragged  the  people  down.  That  which 
would  come  to  Rome  a  thousand  years  later  came 
now  on  a  smaller  scale  to  Israel.  Egyptian  and  Ara- 
bian ravaged  it  by  turns,  and  the  Assyrian  came  down 
numerously.  It  became  the  habit  of  adjoining  na- 
tions to  go  over  and  plunder  and  destroy  Jerusalem. 

Four  hundred  years  after  Solomon,  Josiah  under- 
took to  rehabilitate  the  nation  and  restore  its  ancient 
faith.  He  pulled  down  the  heathen  altars  which 
Solomon  had  constructed,  "that  no  man  might  make 
his  son  or  daughter  pass  through  the  fire  to  Moloch"; 
he  drove  out  and  destroyed  the  iniquitous  priests; 
he  burned  the  high  places  of  pollution  and  stamped 
the  powder  in  the  dust. 

It  was  too  late.  Josiah  was  presently  slain  in  a 
battle  with  the  Egyptians,  and  his  son  dropped  back 
into  the  evil  practices  of  his  fathers.  Nebuchad- 
nezzar came  then,  and  in  one  raid  after  another  ut- 
terly destroyed  Jerusalem,  including  the  Temple  and 
the  Ark,  and  carried  the  inhabitants,  to  the  last  man, 

276 


The  Holy  City 


into  a  captivity  which  lasted  seventy  years.  Then 
Nehemiah  was  allowed  to  return  with  a  large  following 
and  rebuild  the  city.  But  its  prosperity  was  never 
permanent.  The  Jews  were  never  a  governing  na- 
tion. Discontented  and  factional,  they  invited  con- 
quest. Alexander  came,  and,  later,  Rome.  Herod 
the  Great  renewed  and  beautified  the  city,  and  to 
court  favor  with  the  Jews  rebuilt  the  Temple  on  a 
splendid  scale.  This  was  Jerusalem  in  its  final  glory. 
Seventy  years  later  the  Jews  rebelled,  and  Titus 
destroyed  the  city  so  completely  that  it  is  said  to 
have  remained  a  barren  waste  without  a  single  in- 
habitant for  fifty  years. 

To-day  the  city  is  divided  into  "quarters" — Chris- 
tian, Jewish,  Mohammedan,  and  Armenian.  All  wor- 
ships are  permitted,  and  the  sacred  relics — most  of 
them — of  whatever  faith,  are  accessible  to  all.  Such 
in  scanty  outline  is  the  story  of  the  Holy  City.  It 
has  been  besieged  and  burned  and  pulled  down  no 
less  than  sixteen  times — totally  destroyed  and  rebuilt 
at  least  eight  times,  and  the  very  topography  of  its 
site  has  been  changed  by  the  accumulation  of  rubbish. 
Hillsides  have  disappeared.  Where  once  were  hollows 
are  now  mere  depressions  or  flats.  Most  of  the  streets 
that  Jesus  and  the  prophets  trod  lie  from  thirty  to  a 
hundred  feet  below  the  present  surface,  and  bear  little 
relation  even  in  direction  to  those  of  the  present  day. 
Yet  certain  sites  and  landmarks  hav'e  been  identified, 
while  others  are  interesting  for  later  reasons. 

Hence,  both  to  sceptic  and  believer,  Jerusalem  is 
still  a  shrine. 


XXXII 

THE    HOLY    SEPULCHRE 

WE  lost  no  time.  Though  it  was  twilight  when 
we  reached  our  hotel,  we  set  out  at  once  to 
visit  the  spot  which  for  centuries  was  the  most  sacred 
in  all  Christendom — that  holiest  of  holies  which  dur- 
ing two  hundred  years  summoned  to  its  rescue  tide 
after  tide  of  knightly  crusaders,  depleted  the  chivalry 
and  changed  the  map  of  Europe — the  Church  of  the 
Holy  Sepulchre. 

This,  at  least,  would  be  genuine  in  so  far  as  it 
was  the  spot  toward  which  the  flower  of  knighthood 
marched — Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  Richard  of  the 
Lion  Heart,  Ivanhoe,  and  all  the  rest — under  the 
banner  of  the  Cross,  with  the  cry  "God  wills  it"  on 
their  lips.  We  are  eager  to  see  that  precious  land- 
mark. 

It  was  only  a  little  way — nothing  is  far  in  Jerusalem 
— and  we  walked.  We  left  the  narrow  street  in  front 
of  the  hotel  and  entered  some  still  narrower  ones 
where  there  were  tiny  booths  of  the  Oriental  kind, 
and  flickering  lights,  and  curious,  bent  figures,  and 
donkeys;  also  steps  that  we  went  up  or  down,  gen- 
erally down,  which  seemed  strange  when  we  were 
going  to  Calvary,  because  we  had  always  thought 
Calvary  a  hill. 

It  was  impressive,  though.     We  were  in  Jerusalem, 

278 


The  Holy  Sepulchre 


and  if  these  were  not  the  very  streets  that  Jesus  trod, 
surely  they  were  not  unlike  them,  for  the  people  have 
not  changed,  nor  their  habits,  nor  their  architecture 
— at  least,  not  greatly — nor  their  needs.  Whatever 
was  their  cry  for  baksheesh  then,  He  must  often 
have  heard  it,  and  their  blind  eyes  and  their  withered 
limbs  were  such  as  He  once  paused  to  heal. 

I  think  we  continued  to  descend  gradually  to  the 
very  door  of  the  church.  It  did  not  seem  quite  like 
the  entrance  to  a  church,  and,  in  reality,  it  is  not 
altogether  that;  it  is  more  a  repository,  a  collection 
of  sacred  relics,  a  museum  of  scriptural  history. 

We  paused  a  little  outside  while  the  guide — his 
name  was  something  that  meant  St.  George — told 
us  briefly  the  story.  Constantino's  mother,  the  Em- 
press Helena,  he  said,  through  a  dream  had  located 
the  site  of  the  crucifixion  and  burial  of  the  Saviour, 
whereupon  Constantine,  in  335  a.d.,  had  erected 
some  buildings  to  mark  the  place.  The  Persians  de- 
stroyed these  buildings  by-and-by,  but  they  were  re- 
built. Then  the  Moslems  set  fire  to  the  place;  but 
again  some  chapels  were  set  up,  and  these  the  con- 
quering- crusaders  enclosed  under  one  great  roof. 
This  was  about  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century, 
and  portions  of  the  buildings  still  remain,  though  as 
late  as  1808  there  came  a  great  fire  which  necessitated 
a  general  rebuilding,  with  several  enlargements  since, 
as  the  relics  to  be  surrounded  have  increased. 

We  went  inside  then.  The  place  is  dimly  lit — it  is 
always  lit,  I  believe,  for  it  can  never  be  very  light 
in  there — and  everywhere  there  seemed  to  be  flitting 
processions  of  tapers,  and  of  chanting,  dark-robed 

279 


The  Ship -'Dwellers 


priests.  Just  beyond  the  entrance  we  came  to  the 
first  great  relic  —  the  vStone  of  Unction  —  the  slab 
upon  which  the  body  of  Christ  was  laid  when  it  was 
taken  down  from  the  Cross.  It  is  red,  or  looked  red 
in  that  light,  like  a  piece  of  Tennessee  marble,  and, 
though  it  is  not  smoothly  cut,  it  is  polished  with  the 
kisses  of  devout  pilgrims  who  come  far  to  pay  this 
tribute,  and  to  measure  it,  that  their  winding-sheets 
may  be  made  the  same  size.  Above  it  hang  a  number 
of  lamps  and  candelabra,  and  with  the  worshippers 
kneeling  and  kissing  and  measuring,  the  spectacle  was 
sufficiently  impressive.  Then,  as  we  were  about  to 
go,  our  guide  remembered  that  this  was  not  the 
true  Stone  of  Unction,  but  one  like  it,  the  real  stone 
having  been  buried  somewhere  beneath  it.  The  pil- 
grims did  not  know  the  difference,  he  said,  and  they 
used  up  a  stone  after  a  while,  kissing  and  measuring 
it  so  much.  Near  to  the  stone  is  the  Station  of  Mary, 
where  she  stood  while  the  body  of  Jesus  was  being 
anointed,  or  perhaps  where  she  stood  watching  the 
tomb — it  is  not  certain  which.  At  all  events,  it  has 
been  revealed  by  a  vision  that  she  stood  there,  and 
the  place  is  marked  and  enclosed  with  a  railing. 

We  followed  our  guide  deeper  into  the  twinkling 
darkness,  where  the  chanting  processions  were  flick- 
ering to  and  fro,  and  presently  stood  directly  beneath 
a  dome,  facing  an  ornate  marble  or  alabaster  struct- 
ure, flanked  and  surrounded  by  elaborately  wrought 
lamps  and  candlesticks — the  Holy  Sepulchre  itself. 

But  I  had  to  be  told.  I  should  never  have  guessed 
this  to  be  the  shrine  of  shrines,  the  receptacle  of  the 
gentle  Nazarene  who  taught  the  doctrine  of  humility 

280 


The  Holy  Sepulchre 


to  mankind.  And  it  is  the  same  within.  If  a  rock- 
hewn  tomb  is  there,  it  is  overlaid  now  with  costly 
marbles ;  polished  with  kisses ;  bedewed  with  tears. 

We  did  not  remain  in  the  tomb  long,  Laura  and  I. 
Perhaps  they  would  not  have  let  us;  but,  in  any 
case,  we  did  not  wish  to  linger.  At  Damascus,  Laura 
had  gone  so  far  as  to  criticise  the  house  of  Judas,  be- 
cause it  had  been  whitewashed  since  St.  Paul  lodged 
there.  So  it  was  not  likely  that  a  tomb  which  was 
not  a  tomb,  but  merely  a  fancy  marble  memorial, 
would  inspire  much  enthusiasm.  To  us  it  contained 
no  suggestion  of  the  gentle  Prince  of  Peace. 

But  at  the  entrance  of  the  Sepulchre,  facing  us  as 
we  came  out,  there  was  a  genuine  thing.  It  was  a 
woman  kneeling,  a  peasant  woman — of  Russia,  I 
suppose,  from  her  dress.  And  she  was  not  looking 
at  us  at  all,  but  beyond  us,  through  us,  into  that  little 
glowing  interior  which  to  her  was  shining  with  the 
very  light  of  the  Lamb.  I  have  never  seen  another 
face  with  an  expression  like  that.  It  was  fairly  lu- 
minous with  rapt  adoration.  Yes,  she  at  least  was 
genuine — an  absolute  embodiment  of  the  worship  that 
had  led  her  along  footsore  and  weary  miles  to  kneel 
at  last  at  the  shrine  of  her  faith. 

I  am  not  going  to  weary  the  reader  with  detailed 
description  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre.  It 
is  a  vast  place,  and  contains  most  of  the  sacred  relics 
and  many  of  the  sacred  sites  that  have  been  identified 
since  the  zealous  Queen  Helena  set  the  fashion  of 
seeing  visions  and  dreaming  dreams.  We  made  the 
tour  of  a  number  of  the  chapels  of  different  religious 
denominations.     They  are  not  on  good  terms  with 

281 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


one  another,  by-the-way,  and  require  Mohammedan 
guards  to  keep  them  from  fighting  around  the  very 
Sepulchre  itself.  Then  we  descended  some  stairs  to 
the  Chapel  of  St.  Helena,  where  there  is  an  altar  to 
the  penitent  thief,  and  another  to  Queen  Helena, 
though  I  did  not  learn  that  she  ever  repented,  or 
even  reformed. 

They  showed  us  where  the  Queen  sat  when,  pur- 
suing one  of  her  visions,  they  were  digging  for  the 
true  Cross  and  found  all  three  of  them;  and  they 
told  us  how  they  identified  the  holy  one  by  sending 
all  three  to  the  bedside  of  a  noble  lady  who  lay  at 
the  point  of  death.  The  first  shown  her  made  her 
a  maniac;  the  second  threw  her  into  spasms;  the 
third  cured  her  instantly.  The  commemoration  of 
this  event  is  called  in  the  calendar  ''The  Invention 
of  the  Cross,"  which  seems  to  convey  the  idea.  I 
think  it  was  in  the  Chapel  of  the  Finding  of  the  Cross 
that  I  bought  a  wax  candle,  and  a  prayer  went  with 
it,  though  whether  it  was  for  my  soul  or  Queen 
Helena's  I  am  not  certain.  It  does  not  matter.  I 
am  willing  Helena  should  have  it,  if  she  needs  it,  and 
I  think  she  does. 

We  went  on  wandering  around,  and  by-and-by  we 
came  to  a  chapel  where  the  Crown  of  Thorns  was 
made,  and  presently  to  a  short  column  marking  the 
Centre  of  the  Earth,  the  spot  from  which  the  dust 
was  taken  that  was  used  in  making  Adam.  You  see, 
it  is  necessary  to  double  up  on  some  of  the  land- 
marks or  enlarge  the  church  again. 

You  can  climb  a  flight  of  stairs  in  the  Church  of 
the  Holy  Sepulchre  and   be  told  that  you  are  on 

282 


The  Holy  Sepulchre 


Calvary,  and  you  are  allowed  to  put  your  hand 
through  the  floor  into  the  sockets  where  the  crosses 
stood.  We  did  not  do  it,  however.  We  climbed  the 
stairs,  but  a  collection  of  priests  were  holding  some 
kind  of  ceremony  with  candles  and  chanting,  and  we 
were  not  sufficiently  impressed  to  wait. 

We  did  pause,  as  we  came  away,  to  note  in  the 
vestibule  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  the  two  holes  through 
which  on  Easter  Eve  the  Holy  Fire  is  distributed  to 
Christian  pilgrims  who  assemble  from  all  parts  of  the 
world.  On  this  occasion  the  Fire  Bishop  enters  the 
Sepulchre,  and  fire  from  heaven  lights  the  candles  on 
the  altar.  Then  the  Bishop,  who  is  all  alone  in  the 
Sepulchre,  passes  the  Holy  Fire  out  through  these 
holes,  in  the  form  of  a  bundle  of  burning  tapers,  to 
priests.  The  pilgrims  with  unlighted  tapers  then 
rush  and  jam  and  scramble  toward  these  dispensers 
of  the  sacred  flame  and  pay  any  price  demanded  to 
have  their  candles  speedily  lighted.  Usually  a  riot 
takes  place,  and  the  Mohammedan  guards  are  re- 
quired to  prevent  bloodshed. 

In  1834  there  occurred  a  riot  over  the  Holy  Fire 
which  piled  the  dead  ^nq  feet  deep  around  the  Sepul- 
chre. Four  or  five  hundred  were  killed,  and  corpses 
lay  thick  even  on  the  Stone  of  Unction.  It  seems  a 
useless  sacrifice,  when  one  thinks  of  it,  but  then  the 
blood  of  five  hundred  is  only  a  drop  as  compared  with 
what  the  centuries  have  contributed  to  this  revered 
shrine. 

I  want  to  be  quite  serious  for  a  moment  about  the 
Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre — here  in  Jerusalem — 
now,  while  I  am  in  the  spirit  of  the  thing. 

283 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


It  is  the  biggest  humbug  in  all  Christendom.  Of 
the  scores  of  sites  and  relics  enclosed  within  its  walls, 
it  is  unlikely  that  a  single  one  is  genuine.  With  all 
respect  to  Queen  Helena's  talent  for  dreams,  her 
knowledge  of  Scripture  must  have  been  sparing,  or 
she  would  have  located  Calvary  outside  the  walls  of 
Jerusalem.  This  place  is  in  the  heart  of  the  city — 
was  always  in  the  heart  of  the  city,  in  spite  of  all 
gerrymandering  to  prove  it  otherwise;  and  it  was 
more  of  a  fiat  or  a  hollow  in  the  time  of  Christ  than 
it  is  now. 

As  for  the  other  traditions  and  trumpery  gathered 
in  this  ecclesiastical  side-show,  they  are  unworthy  of 
critical  attention.  Probably  not  one  in  a  million  of 
the  readers  of  Innocents  A  broad  but  thought  the  find- 
ing of  the  Grave  of  Adam  one  of  Mark  Twain's 
jokes.  Not  at  all;  it  is  located  here  under  Cal- 
vary, and  the  place  from  which  came  Adam's  dust 
(the  Centre  of  the  World)  is  close  by.  Then  there  is 
that  Stone  of  Unction,  which  every  one  of  intelligence 
knows  to  be  a  fraud,  and  there  is  the  stone  which  the 
angel  rolled  away,  and  Adam's  skull — they  have  that, 
too. 

It  would  seem  that  the  human  animal  had  ex- 
hausted his  simian  inheritance  then.  But  no,  he  can 
never  exhaust  that — it  is  his  one  limitless  gift.  He 
has  gone  right  on  adding  to  his  heap  of  bones  and 
crockery,  enlarging  the  museum  from  time  to  time 
to  make  room.  And  he  will  add  more.  The  future 
is  long,  and  it  is  only  a  question  of  time  and  faith 
when  he  will  bring  over  the  tombs  of  the  patriarchs 
from  Hebron,  the  Grotto  of  the  Nativity  from  Beth- 

284 


The  Holy  Sepulchre 


lehem,  the  House  of  Judas  from  Damascus,  and  the 
Street  that  was  called  Straight.  Oh,  he  can  do  it! 
A  creature  who  can  locate  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  the 
Grave  of  Adam,  the  Centre  of  the  World,  Mount  Cal- 
vary, and  fifty  other  historical  sites  all  within  the 
radius  of  a  few  feet,  and  find  enough  of  his  own  kind 
to  accept  them,  can  do  anything.  As  an  insult  to 
human  intelligence  and  genuine  Christian  faith,  I 
suppose  this  institution  stands  alone. 

Do  the  priests  themselves,  the  beneficiaries,  believe 
it?  Perhaps — at  least  some  of  them  do.  There  is 
nothing  so  dense,  so  sodden,  so  impenetrable  as 
priestly  superstition.  Not  a  ray  of  reason  can  enter 
a  mind  darkened  for  a  lifetime  by  ceremonials  in 
which  candles,  chantings,  swinging  censers,  and  pros- 
trations are  regarded  as  worship.  Could  you  pro- 
duce any  evidence  that  would  appeal  to  the  minds 
of  those  figures  that  march  and  countermarch,  and 
carry  tapers  and  chant  among  these  frauds  and  frip- 
peries of  their  faith?  Hardly — they  would  not  care 
for  evidence.  What  they  want  is  more  superstition; 
more  for  themselves — more,  always  more,  for  their 
followers ;  the  more  superstition,  the  more  power,  the 
more  baksheesh.  They  have  no  use  for  facts  and 
testimony.  They  can  create  both  to  fit  the  need. 
Let  any  comer  of  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre 
become  vacant,  and  immediately  some  prelate  will 
dream  that  it  is  the  true  place  where  Balaam's  Ass 
saw  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword,  and  they  will 
promptly  consecrate  the  spot;  then  they  will  ex- 
cavate and  find  the  sword  and  a  footprint  of  the  angel, 
also  a  piece  of  the  Ass,  and  they  will  make  a  saint  of 
19  285 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


Balaam,  and  very  likely  of  the  Ass,  and  they  will  set 
up  an  altar  and  get  a  sign-painter  to  make  a  picture 
of  the  vision,  and  the  people  will  contribute  prayers 
and  piastres,  and  yell  baksheesh  at  every  traveller 
to  keep  the  high  priests  of  Balaam  in  food  and  funds. 

Strange  that  we  who  regard  the  Mohammedan  pil- 
grim with  disdain  or  compassion,  on  his  journey  to 
Mecca  and  Medina,  excuse  or  condone  the  existence 
of  a  shrine  like  this.  The  Prophet's  birthplace  and 
tomb  are  at  least  authentic,  and  it  was  his  desire  that 
his  followers  should  visit  them.  They  are  acknowl- 
edging a  fact.     These  people  are  supporting  a  fraud. 

And  then  the  pity  of  it !  The  remembering  that  it 
was  for  this  trumpery  thing  those  mighty  crusades 
swept  like  a  flame  across  Europe,  robbed  her  of  her 
chivalry,  and  desolated  a  million  homes ;  for  this  that 
gallant  knights  put  on  their  armor  and  rode  away 
under  the  banner  of  the  Cross,  shouting,  '*  God  wills 
it!"  For  this  that  men  have  drenched  more  than 
one  nation  with  blood  and  changed  the  map  and  his- 
tory of  the  world! 

True,  one  may  not  altogether  regret  the  crusades. 
They  made  romance  and  the  high  achievement  to 
be  celebrated  in  picture  and  in  song.  It  was  fine, 
indeed,  to  ride  away  in  shining  mail  in  a  vast  army 
in  which  all  were  officers — splendid  knights  battling 
for  glory  in  a  cause.  Aching  hearts  and  forsaken 
homes  were  plentiful  behind,  yet  even  they  reflected 
the  glamour  of  romance,  the  fervor  of  a  faith. 

But  there  was  one  crusade  in  which  there  was 
neither  romance  nor  glory — nothing  except  heart- 
break and  anguish,  and  the  long  torture  of  the  years. 

286 


The  Holy  Sepulchre 


That  was  the  Children's  Crusade  —  the  crusade 
in  which  fanaticism  spelled  its  last  word  —  when 
a  countless  number  of  children  of  all  ages,  as  young 
as  seven  some  of  them,  flocked  to  the  standard  of  a 
boy  of  seventeen  and  wandered  off  down  through 
Europe,  to  faint  and  fall  and  die  by  hundreds  and 
by  thousands  from  hunger  and  heat  and  thirst — 
moaning  and  grieving  unheeded  among  the  stones 
and  bushes — to  reach  the  Mediterranean  at  last,  a 
scattered  remnant,  there  to  be  taken  on  board  some 
vessels  and  sold  into  slavery  in  Algiers! 

There  was  no  glory,  no  triumph  however  imaginary, 
in  that  crusade;  no  romance,  no  glamour  after  the 
first  day's  march.  It  was  only  weariness  and  torture 
after  that — only  wretchedness  and  the  fevered  cry 
for  the  comfort  of  a  mother's  arm.  And  all  for  the 
sake  of  this  dime-museum  of  faith,  this  huge  ecclesi- 
astical joke.  The  pity  of  it,  indeed!  Here  to-night, 
a  stone 's-throw  away,  my  heart  bleeds  for  those 
little  weary  feet  struggling  on  and  on,  for  those  little 
fainting  souls,  moaning,  grieving,  trying  to  keep  up, 
lying  down  at  last  to  coax  the  blessed  release  of 
death,  and  I  would  like  to  stand  here  on  the  house- 
tops of  Jerusalem  and  cry  out  against  this  insult  to 
the  memory  of  One  who,  when  He  said,  ''Suffer  little 
children  to  come  unto  me,"  could  hardly  have  foreseen 
that  His  words  would  bear  such  bitter  fruit. 

I  do  not  do  it,  however.  I  want  to  live  to  get 
home  and  print  this  thing,  and  have  it  graven  on 
my  tomb. 


XXXIII 

TWO   HOLY   MOUNTAINS 

WE  set  out  early  next  morning  for  Mount  Moriah, 
the  site  of  Solomon's  temple  and  those  that 
followed  it. 

It  was  really  David's  temple  in  the  beginning, 
undertaken  to  avert  a  pestilence  which  he  had  selected 
from  three  punishments  offered  by  the  Lord  because 
he,  David,  had  presumed  to  number  his  people.  A 
Hebrew  census  was  a  sin  in  those  days,  it  would 
seem,  and  seventy  thousand  of  the  enrolled  had  al- 
ready died  when  David  saw  an  angel  with  a  drawn 
sword — the  usual  armament  of  an  angel — standing 
by  the  threshing-floor  of  Oman  the  Jebusite.  Through 
Gad,  his  Soothsayer,  David  was  commanded  to  set 
up  an  altar  on  that  spot,  to  avert  further  calamity. 
Negotiations  with  Oman  were  at  once  begun,  to  the 
end  that  Oman  parted  with  the  site  for  "six  hundred 
shekels  of  gold,  by  weight";  the  threshing-floor  was 
quickly  replaced  by  an  altar,  and  here,  on  the  top  of 
Mount  Moriah — on  the  great  bowlder  reputed  to  have 
been  the  sacrificial  stone  of  Melchizedek — and  of 
Abraham,  who  was  said  to  have  proffered  Isaac  here 
— King  David  made  offering  to  the  Lord,  and  was 
answered  by  fire  from  heaven  on  the  newly  erected 
altar.  And  the  angel  ''put  up  his  sword  again  into 
the  sheath  thereof." 

288 


Two  Holy  Mountains 


From  that  day  the  bowlder  on  the  top  of  Mount 
Moriah  became  the  place  of  sacrifice — the  great  cen- 
tral shrine  of  the  Jewish  faith.  David  decided  to 
build  a  temple  there,  and  prepared  for  it  abundantly, 
as  became  his  high  purpose.  But  because  David 
had  shed  much  blood,  the  Lord  interfered  and  com- 
manded him  to  turn  the  enterprise  over  to  Solomon, 
"a  man  of  rest."  *'He  shall  build  an  house  for  my 
name;  and  he  shall  be  my  son,  and  I  will  be  his 
father ;  and  I  will  establish  the  throne  of  his  kingdom 
over  Israel  forever." 

In  the  light  of  thoughtful  Bible  reading,  it  is  not 
easy  to  see  that  Solomon  was  much  of  an  improve- 
ment over  David,  in  the  long-run,  and  one  cannot 
but  notice  the  fact  that  the  promise  to  establish  his 
throne  over  Israel  forever  was  not  long  maintained. 
But  perhaps  the  Lord  did  not  foresee  how  Solomon 
was  going  to  turn  out;  besides,  forever  is  a  long 
time,  and  the  Kingdom  of  Solomon  may  still  prevail. 

Solomon  completed  the  temple  in  a  manner  that 
made  it  celebrated,  even  to  this  day.  The  **  oracle, 
or  holy  room,  which  held  the  Ark  of  the  Covenant, 
was  overlaid  within  with  pure  gold,"  and  the  rest  of 
the  temple  was  in  keeping  with  this  dazzling  chamber. 

The  temple  was  often  pillaged  during  the  troublous 
times  that  followed  Solomon's  reign,  but  it  managed 
to  stand  till  Nebuchadnezzar's  conquest,  four  cen- 
turies later.  It  was  twice  rebuilt,  the  last  time  by 
Herod,  on  a  scale  of  surpassing  splendor.  It  was 
Herod's  temple  that  Christ  knew,  and  the  work  of 
beautifying  and  adding  to  it  was  going  on  during  his 
entire  lifetime.     It  was  finished  in  65  a.d.,  and  five 

289 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


years  later  it  went  down  in  the  general  destruction, 
though  Titus  himself  tried  to  preserve  it. 

Most  of  what  exists  to-day  are  the  remains  of 
Herod's  temple.  The  vast  court,  or  temple  area, 
occupies  about  one-sixth  of  all  Jerusalem,  and  of  the 
genuineness  of  this  site  there  is  no  question.  In  the 
centre  of  it,  where  once  the  house  of  David  and 
Solomon  stood,  stands  the  Dome  of  the  Rock — also 
called  the  Mosque  of  Omar,  though  it  is  not  really 
a  mosque,  and  was  not  built  by  Omar.  It  is,  in  fact, 
a  marvellous  jewelled  casket  —  the  most  beautiful 
piece  of  architecture  in  the  world,  it  has  been  called 
— ^built  for  no  other  purpose  than  to  hold  the  old 
sacrificial  stone  of  Melchizedek  and  Abraham — a  land- 
mark revered  alike  by  Moslem,  Christian,  and  Jew. 

One  is  bound  to  feel  impressed  in  the  presence  of 
that  old  bowlder,  seamed  and  scarred  by  ages  of  sun 
and  tempest ;  hacked  for  this  purpose  and  that ;  gray 
with  antiquity — the  very  comer-stone  of  three  relig- 
ions, upholding  the  traditions  and  the  faith  of  four 
thousand  years.  There  is  nothing  sham  or  tawdry 
about  that.  The  building  is  splendid  enough,  but  it 
is  artistically  beautiful,  and  the  old  rock  itself — the 
genuine  rock  of  ages — is  as  bare  and  rugged  as  when 
Isaac  lay  upon  it  bound,  and  the  ''chosen  people" 
narrowly  missed  non-existence. 

There  is  a  railing  around  it ;  but  you  can  look  over 
or  through  as  long  as  you  like,  and  if  one  is  of  a  re- 
flective temperament  he  can  look  a  long  time.  Among 
other  things  he  will  notice  a  number  of  small  square 
holes,  cut  long  ago  to  receive  the  ends  of  slender  sup- 
ports that  upheld  a  royal  canopy  or  screen,  and  he 

290 


Two  Holy  Mountains 


will  see  the  conduits  cut  to  carry  off  the  blood  of  the 
sacrifice.  To  his  mental  vision  these  things  will  con- 
jure pictures — a  panorama  of  rites  and  ceremonials — 
of  altar  and  incense,  with  all  the  splendid  costume 
and  blazonry  of  the  Judean  king.  And,  after  these, 
sacrifices  of  another  sort — the  cry  of  battle  and  the 
clash  of  arms  across  this  hoary  relic,  its  conduits 
filled  with  a  crimson  tide  that  flowed  without  regard 
to  ritual  or  priest. 

Other  pictures  follow:  the  feast  of  the  Passover, 
when  Jerusalem  was  crowded  with  strangers,  when 
the  great  outer  court  of  the  temple  was  filled  with 
booths  and  pens  of  the  sellers  who  offered  sheep, 
goats,  cattle,  and  even  doves  for  the  sacrifice;  when 
the  temple  itself  was  crow^ded  with  throngs  of  eager 
worshippers  who  brought  their  sacrifices,  with  tithes 
to  the  priests,  and  were  made  -clean. 

Amid  one  such  throng  there  is  a  boy  of  twelve 
years,  who  with  His  parents  has  come  up  to  Jerusalem 
"after  the  custom  of  the  feast."  We  think  of  them 
as  quiet,  simple  people,  those  three  from  Nazareth, 
jostled  by  the  crowds  a  good  deal,  and  looking  rather 
wonderingly  on  the  curious  sights  of  that  great  yearly 
event.  They  would  work  their  way  into  the  temple, 
by-and-by,  and  they  would  come  here  to  the  Rock, 
and  perhaps  the  sad,  deep-seeing  eyes  of  that  boy 
of  twelve  would  look  down  the  years  to  a  day  when 
in  this  same  city  it  would  be  His  blood  that  would 
flow  at  the  hands  of  men. 

I  hope  He  did  not  see  that  far.  But  we  know  that 
light  for  Him  lay  somewhat  on  the  path  ahead,  for 
when  the  feast  was  over,  and  His  parents  had  set  out 

291 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


for  Nazareth,  He  lingered  to  mingle  with  the  learned 
men,  and  He  said  to  His  parents  when  they  came  for 
Him,  "Wist  ye  not  that  I  must  be  about  my  father's 
business  ?"  Among  all  those  who  thronged  about  this 
stone  for  a  thousand  years,  somehow  the  gentle 
presence  of  that  boy  of  twelve  alone  remains,  un van- 
ishing and  clear. 

And  what  a  mass  of  legends  have  heaped  them- 
selves upon  this  old  landmark!  —  a  groundwork  of 
Jewish  tradition — a  layer  of  Christian  imagery — an 
ever- thickening  crust  of  Moslem  whim  and  fantasy. 
A  few  of  them  are  perhaps  worth  repeating.  The 
Talmud,  for  instance,  is  authority  for  the  belief  that 
the  Rock  covers  the  mouth  of  an  abyss  wherein  the 
waters  of  the  Flood  may  be  heard  roaring.  Another 
belief  of  the  Jews  held  it  as  the  centre  and  one  of 
the  foundations  of  the  world.  Of  Jesus  it  is  said 
that  He  discovered  upon  the  Rock  the  great  and 
unspeakable  name  of  God  (Shem),  and  was  thereby 
enabled  to  work  his  miracles. 

But  the  Moslem  soars  into  fairy-land  when  he 
comes  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  ancient  relic.  To 
him  the  Rock  hangs  suspended  in  mid-air,  and  would 
have  followed  Mohammed  to  heaven  if  the  Angel 
Gabriel  had  not  held  fast  to  it.  We  saw  the  prints 
of  Gabriel's  fingers,  which  were  about  the  size  and 
formation  of  a  two-inch  auger.  Another  Moslem 
fancy  is  that  the  rock  rests  on  a  palm  watered  by  a 
river  of  Paradise. 

In  the  hollow  beneath  the  Rock  (probably  an  arti- 
ficial grotto)  there  is  believed  to  be  a  well,  the  Well 
of  Souls,  where  spirits  of  the  deceased  assemble  twice 

292 


Two  Holy  Mountains 


a  week  to  pray.  They  regard  it  as  also  the  mouth  of 
hell,  which  I  don't  think  can  be  true,  or  the  souls 
would  not  come  there — not  if  they  could  help  it — not 
as  often  as  twice  a  week,  I  mean. 

A  print  of  Mohammed's  head  is  also  shown  in  the 
roof  of  the  grotto,  and  I  believe  in  that,  because, 
being  a  tall  man,  when  I  raised  up  suddenly  I  made 
another  just  like  it.  But  I  am  descending  into 
trivialities,  and  the  Rock  is  not  trivial  by  any  means. 
It  has  been  there  since  the  beginning,  and  it  is  likely 
to  remain  there  until  all  religions  are  forgotten,  and 
the  world  is  dead,  and  all  the  stars  are  dark. 

In  front  of  the  Dome  of  the  Rock  the  sun  was 
bright,  and  looking  across  the  approach  one  gets  a 
characteristic  view  of  Jerusalem — its  bubble-roofed 
houses  and  domes,  its  cypress  and  olive  trees.  I  made 
a  photograph  of  Laura,  age  fourteen,  and  a  friend  of 
hers,  against  that  background,  but  they  would  have 
looked  more  ''in  the  picture"  in  Syrian  dress.  I  am 
not  sure,  however;  some  of  our  party  have  had  them- 
selves photographed  in  Syrian  dress,  which  seemed  to 
belong  to  most  of  them  about  as  much  as  a  baseball 
uniform  might  belong  to  a  Bedouin — or  a  camel. 

We  crossed  over  to  the  ancient  mosque  El-Aksa, 
also  within  the  temple  area,  but  it  was  only  mildly 
interesting  after  the  Dome  of  the  Rock.  Still,  there 
were  things  worth  noting.  There  were  the  two  pil- 
lars, for  instance,  which  stand  so  close  together  that 
only  slender  people  could  squeeze  between  them. 
Yet  in  an  earlier  time  every  pilgrim  had  to  try,  and 
those  who  succeeded  were  certain  of  Paradise.     This 

293 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


made  it  humiliating  for  the  others,  and  the  impulse 
to  train  down  for  the  test  became  so  prevalent  that 
stanchions  were  placed  between  the  pillars  a  few 
years  ago.  We  could  only  estimate  our  chances  and 
give  ourselves  the  benefit  of  the  doubt. 

Then  there  is  the  Well  of  the  Leaf,  which  has  a  pretty 
story.  It  is  a  cistern  under  the  mosque,  and  the" 
water  is  very  clear.  Once,  during  the  caliphate  of 
Omar,  a  sheik  came  to  this  well  for  water,  and  his 
bucket  slipped  from  his  hands.  He  went  down  after 
it,  and  came  to  a  mysterious  door  which,  when  he 
opened  it,  led  into  a  beautiful  garden.  Enchanted, 
he  lingered  there  and  finally  plucked  a  leaf  to  bring 
back  as  a  token  of  what  he  had  seen.  The  leaf  never 
withered,  and  so  a  prophecy  of  Mohammed's  that  one 
of  his  followers  should  enter  Paradise  alive  had  been 
fulfilled. 

I  said  I  would  go  down  and  hunt  for  the  door.  But 
they  said,  "No"  —  that  a  good  many  had  tried  it 
without  success.  The  cistern  used  to  collect  every 
year  the  pilgrims  who  went  down  to  find  that  door; 
no  one  was  permitted  to  try,  now. 

In  one  of  the  windows  of  the  old  mosque  we  saw  a 
curious  sight:  a  very  aged  and  very  black,  withered 
man — Bedouin,  I  should  say — reclining  face  down 
in  the  wide  sill,  poring  over  an  ancient  parch- 
ment book,  patiently  transcribing  from  it  cabalistic 
passages  on  a  black,  charred  board  with  a  sharpened 
stick.  The  guide  said  he  was  a  magician  from  some- 
where in  the  dim  interior;    certainly  he  looked  it. 

From  somewhere — it  was  probably  from  an  open- 
ing in  the  wall  near  the  Golden  Gate — we  looked  east- 

294 


Two  Holy  Mountains 


ward  across  the  valley  of  Kedron  toward   the  fair 
hillsides,  which  presently  we  were  to  visit. 

Immediately  we  set  out  for  the  Mount  of  Olives. 
We  drove,  and  perhaps  no  party  ever  ascended  that 
sacred  hill  on  a  fairer  morning.  The  air  was  still,  and 
there  was  a  quiet  Sunday  feeling  in  the  sunshine.  In 
the  distance  there  was  a  filmy,  dreamy  haze  that  gave 
just  the  touch  of  ideality  to  the  picture. 

The  road  that  leads  up  Olivet  is  bordered  by  tra- 
ditional landmarks,  but  we  could  not  stop  for  them. 
It  was  enough  to  be  on  the  road  itself,  following  the 
dusty  way  the  Son  of  Man  and  His  disciples  once 
knew  so  well.  For  this  hill  of  fair  olive-groves,  over- 
looking Jerusalem,  was  their  favorite  resort,  and  it 
was  their  habit  to  come  here  to  look  down  in  con- 
templation on  the  holy  city.  It  was  here  that  the 
Master  felt  the  shadow  of  coming  events :  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  city ;  the  persecution  and  triumph  of  His 
followers;  His  own  approaching  tragedy.  It  was 
here  that  He  gave  them  the  parable  of  the  Virgins, 
and  of  the  Talents,  and  it  was  here  that  He  came 
often  at  evening  for  rest  and  prayer,  after  the  buffet 
and  labor  of  the  day.  This  is  the  road  His  feet  so 
often  trod — a  well-kept  road,  with  the  olive-groves, 
now  as  then,  sloping  away  on  either  side. 

Here  and  there  we  turned  to  look  down  on  Jeru- 
salem, lying  there  bathed  in  the  sunlit  haze — a  toy 
city,  it  seemed,  with  its  little  round- topped  houses, 
its  domes  and  minarets,  its  battlemented  walls.  How 
very  small  it  was,  indeed!  Why,  one  could  run  its 
entire  circuit  without  losing  breath.  It  is,  in  fact, 
little  more  than  half  a  mile  across  in  any  direction, 

295 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


and  from  a  distance  it  becomes  an  exquisite  jewel  set 
amid  barren  hills. 

I  am  afraid  I  did  not  properly  enjoy  the  summit 
of  the  Mount  of  Olives — its  landmarks,  I  mean.  The 
Russian  and  Greek  and  Latin  churches  have  spoiled 
it  with  offensive  architecture,  and  they  have  located 
and  labelled  exact  sites  in  a  way  that  destroys  the 
reality  of  the  events.  They  have  framed  in  the 
precise  spot  where  Jesus  stood  at  the  time  of  His 
ascension.  It  is  a  mistake  to  leave  it  there.  It 
should  be  transferred  to  the  Church  of  the  Holy 
Sepulchre. 

But  the  view  eastward,  looking  down  on  the  Jor- 
dan and  the  Dead  Sea,  with  the  mountains  of  Moab 
lying  beyond,  they  cannot  spoil  or  change.  Down 
there  on  that  spot,  thirty-five  hundred  years  ago, 
the  chosen  people  camped  and  prepared  for  the  rav- 
age and  conquest  of  this  valley,  this  mountain,  and 
the  fair  lands  beyond,  even  to  Mount  Hermon  and 
the  westward  sea.  Over  there,  on  ''  Nebo's  lonely 
mountain,"  Moses  looked  down  upon  this  land  of  vine 
and  olive  which  he  was  never  to  enter,  and  being 
weary  with  the  harassings  of  his  stiff-necked  people, 
lay  down  by  the  wayside  and  left  them  to  work  out 
their  own  turbulent  future. 

"And  the  angels  of  God  upturned  the  sod 
And  laid  the  dead  man  there." 

I  have  always  loved  those  lines,  and  it  was  worth 
the  voyage  to  remember  them  here,  looking  down 
from  the  Mount  of  Olives  toward  the  spot  where 
lies  that  unknown  grave. 

296 


XXXIV 

THE    LITTLE    TOWN    OF   THE   MANGER 

IT  was  afternoon  when  we  drove  to  Bethlehem — a 
pleasant  drive,  though  dusty  withal.  The  road  lies 
between  grain-fields  —  fields  where  Ruth  may  have 
gleaned,  and  where  the  Son  of  Man  may  have  stopped 
to  gather  com.  It  gives  one  a  curious  feeling  to  re- 
member that  these  fields  are  the  same,  and  that  for 
them  through  all  the  centuries  seed-time  and  harvest 
have  never  failed.  Nor  have  they  changed  —  the 
walls,  the  laborers,  the  methods,  the  crops  belong  to 
any  period  that  this  country  has  known. 

The  convent  of  Elijah  was  pointed  out  to  us,  but 
it  did  not  matter.  Elijah  never  saw  it — never  heard 
of  it.  It  is  different,  however,  with  a  stone  across 
the  way  from  the  entrance.  Elijah  went  to  sleep  on 
that  stone,  and  slept  so  heavily  that  he  left  his  im- 
print there,  which  remains  to  this  day.  We  viewed 
that  stone  with  interest;  then  we  took  most  of  it 
and  went  on. 

In  a  little  while  w^e  came  to  the  tomb  of  Rachel. 
The  small,  mosque-like  building  that  covers  it  is  not 
very  old,  but  the  site  is  probably  as  well  authenticated 
as  any  of  that  period.  Jacob  was  on  his  way  from 
Padan  when  she  died,  and  he  buried  her  by  the 
roadside  "when  there  was  but  a  little  way  to  come 
intoEphrath"  (which  is  Bethlehem).  He  marked  the 

297 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


grave  with  a  pillar  which  the  generations  would  not 
fail  to  point  out,  one  to  another,  as  the  last  resting- 
place  of  this  mother  in  Israel  who  died  that  Benjamin 
might  have  life. 

Poor  Rachel!  Supplanted  in  her  husband's  love; 
denied  long  the  natural  heritage  of  woman;  paying 
the  supreme  price  at  last,  only  to  be  left  here  by 
the  wayside  alone,  outside  the  family  tomb.  All  the 
others  are  gathered  at  Hebron  in  the  Field  of  Mach- 
pelah,  which  Abraham  bought  from  the  children  of 
Heth  for  Sarah's  burial-place.  Jacob,  at  the  very 
last,  made  his  sons  swear  that  they  would  bury  him 
at  Hebron  with  the  others.  He  remembered  Rachel 
in  her  lonely  grave,  and  spoke  of  her  there,  but  did 
not  ask  that  he  be  taken  to  lie  by  her  side,  or  that 
she  be  laid  with  the  others.  He  died  as  he  had  lived 
—  self-seeking,  unsympathetic  —  a  commonplace  old 
man. 

Just  outside  of  Bethlehem  we  were  welcomed  by  a 
crowd  of  little  baksheesh  girls,  of  a  better  look  and 
distinctly  of  a  better  way  than  the  Jerusalem  type. 
They  ran  along  with  the  carriage  and  began  a  chant 
which,  behold,  was  German,  at  least  Germanesque: 

"Oh,  duFroliche! 
Oh,  du  Heilege! 

B  aksheesh !     B  aksheesh ! ' ' 

I  suppose  **0h,  thou  happy  one;  Oh,  thou  holy 
one,"  would  be  about  the  translation,  with  the  wail- 
ing refrain  at  the  end.  I  think  we  gave  them  some- 
thing. I  hope  so;  they  are  after  us  always,  and  we 
either  give  them  or  we  don't,  without  much  discrimi- 

298 


The  Little   Town  of  the  Manger 

nation.  You  can't  discriminate.  They  are  all  wretched 
and  miserably  needy.  You  give  to  get  rid  of  them, 
or  when  pity  clutches  a  little  fiercer  than  usual  at 
your  heart. 

So  we  were  at  the  gates  of  Bethlehem — the  little 
town  whose  name  is  familiar  at  the  firesides  of  more 
than  half  the  world — a  name  that  always  brings  with 
it  a  feeling  of  bright  stars  and  dim  fields: 

"  Where  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by  night 
All  seated  on  the  ground," 

and  of  angel  voices  singing  peace  and  goodwill.  A 
camel- train  led  the  way  through  the  gates. 

I  suppose  the  city  itself  is  not  unlike  Jerusalem  in 
its  general  character,  only  somewhat  cleaner,  and  less 
extensive.  We  went  immediately  to  the  place  of  the 
nativity,  but  before  we  could  get  to  it  we  were  seized 
and  dragged  and  almost  compelled  to  buy  some  of 
the  mother-of-pearl  beads  and  fancy  things  that  are 
made  just  across  the  way.  We  escaped  into  the 
Church  of  the  Nativity  at  last — an  old,  old  church, 
desolate  and  neglected  in  its  aspect,  though  sufficient- 
ly occupied  with  chanting  and  droning  and  candle- 
bearing  acolytes.  Yet  it  is  better — oh,  much  better — 
than  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre,  and  it  has  a 
legitimate  excuse.  If  Christ  was  bom  in  a  Bethle- 
hem manger,  as  the  gospel  records,  it  is  probable  that 
He  was  bom  here.  There  are  many  reasons  for  be- 
lieving that  the  grotto  below  this  church  was  used 
as  the  inn  stables  in  that  time,  and  that  the  brief  life 
which  has  laid  its  tender  loveliness  on  so  many  lives 
had  its  beginning  here. 

299 


The  Ship -Jewellers 


We  descended  to  the  grotto  and  stood  on  the  spot 
that  is  said  to  have  heard  His  first  infant  cry.  There 
is  a  silver  star  in  the  floor  polished  with  kisses,  and 
there  are  a  lot  of  ornate  lamps  and  other  paltry 
things  hanging  about.  It  does  not  matter,  I  suppose, 
but  I  wish  these  professional  religionists  did  not  find 
such  things  necessary  to  stimulate  their  faith.  Still, 
one  could  shut  his  eyes  and  realize,  or  try  to  realize, 
that  he  was  standing  in  the  place  where  the  Light 
that  has  illumined  a  world  struck  its  first  feeble 
spark;  where  the  impulse  that  for  nineteen  hundred 
years  has  swept  across  the  nations  in  tides  of  war 
and  peace  first  trembled  into  life — a  wave  of  love  in 
a  mother's  heart.     As  I  say,  the  rest  did  not  matter. 

While  the  others  were  looking  into  the  shops  across 
the  way,  I  wandered  about  the  streets  a  little,  the  side 
streets,  which  in  character  cannot  have  changed  much 
in  nineteen  hundred  years.  The  people  are  poor,  and 
there  are  many  idlers.  There  are  beggars,  too;  some 
of  them  very  wretched — and  leprous,  I  think.  It 
seems  a  pity,  here  in  the  birthplace  of  Him  who 
healed  with  a  word. 

We  bought  some  of  the  Bethlehem  beads.  They 
will  sell  you  a  string  a  yard  long  for  a  franc,  and  they 
cut  each  bead  separately  from  mother-of-pearl  with 
the  most  primitive  tools,  and  they  shape  it  and  polish 
it  and  bore  a  hole  in  it,  all  by  hand,  and  link  it  on 
a  gimp  wire.  In  America  you  could  not  get  a  single 
bead  made  in  that  way  for  less  than  double  what  they 
ask  for  a  whole  string.  But,  as  I  have  said,  they  are 
very  poor  here — as  poor  as  when  they  bestowed  a 
Saviour  on  mankind. 

300 


XXXV 

THE  SORROW  OF  THE  CHOSEN — THE  WAY  OF  THE  CROSS 

"\  X  7"  E  had  left  Bethlehem  and  were  back  in  Jerusa- 
V  V  lem,  presently,  on  our  way  to  the  Jews'  Wailing- 
place.  I  did  not  believe  in  it  before  I  went.  I  was 
afraid  it  might  be  a  sort  of  show-place,  prepared  for 
the  occasion.  I  have  changed  my  mind  now.  If 
there  is  one  thing  in  Jerusalem  absolutely  genuine 
and  directly  linked  with  its  ancient  glories,  it  is  the 
Jews'  Wai ling-place. 

You  approach  it  through  a  narrow  lane — a  sicken- 
ing gantlet  of  misery.  Near  the  entrance  wretched 
crones,  with  the  distaff  and  spindle  of  the  Fates,  sat 
in  the  dust,  spinning  what  might  have  been  the 
thread  of  sorrow.  Along  the  way  the  beggars;  not 
the  ordinary  vociferous  beggars  of  Constantinople, 
of  Smyrna,  of  Ephesus,  even  of  Jaffa,  but  beggars 
such  as  the  holy  city  alone  can  duplicate.  Men  and 
women  who  are  only  the  veriest  shreds  of  humanity, 
crouched  in  the  dirt,  reeking  with  filth  and  rags  and 
vermin  and  sores,  staring  with  blind  and  festering 
eyes,  mumbling,  moaning,  and  wailing  out  their  eter- 
nal cry  of  baksheesh,  often — if  a  woman — clutching 
some  ghastly  infant  to  a  bare,  scrawny  breast.  There 
was  no  loud  demand  for  alms ;  it  was  only  a  muted 
chorus  of  pleading,  the  voice  with  which  misery  spells 
its  last  word.  Some  made  no  sound,  nor  gesture,  even. 
20  301 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


They  saw  nothing,  heard  nothing,  knew  nothing  — 
they  were  no  longer  alive — they  had  only  not  ceased 
to  breathe  and  suffer.  The  spectacle  made  us  gasp 
and  want  to  cry  out  with  the  very  horror  of  it. 

We  were  through  the  fearful  gantlet  at  last,  and 
went  directly  into  the  Jews'  Wailing-place.  ^There 
behold  the  most  lamentable  passage  in  the  most 
tragic  epic  of  all  history — the  frayed  remnant  of  a 
once  mighty  race  mourning  for  its  fall.  A  few  hours 
before,  and  but  a  few  rods  away,  we  had  looked  upon 
the  evidences  of  its  former  greatness,  its  splendor  and 
its  glory — the  place  of  King  Solomon's  temple  when 
it  sat  as  on  the  pinnacle  of  the  world.  Indeed,  we 
were  looking  at  it  now,  for  this  wall  before  which  they 
bow  in  anguish  is  a  portion  of  the  mighty  architecture 
for  which  they  mourn.  In  the  general  destruction  of 
Titus  this  imposing  fragment  remained,  and  to-day 
they  bow  before  it  and  utter  their  sorrow  in  the  most 
doleful  grieving  that  ever  fell  on  human  ear.  Along 
the  wall  they  stand  or  kneel,  and  on  rows  of  benches 
behind  they  gather  thickly,  reading  from  faded  and 
tattered  Hebrew  Scriptures  the  "Lamentations,"  or 
chanting  in  chorus  the  saddest  dirge  the  world  has 
ever  known. 


"  Because  of  the  palace  which  is  deserted — 
We  sit  alone  and  weep. 
Because  of  the  temple  which  is  destroyed, 
Because  of  the  walls  which  are  broken  down, 
Because  of  our  greatness  which  has  departed. 
Because  of  the  precious  stones  of  the  temple  ground  to 

powder, 
Because  of  our  priests  who  have  erred  and  gone  astray, 
Because  of  our  kings  who  have  contemned  God — 
We  sit  alone  and  weep! " 

302 


THE    DEPTH    OF    THEIR    FALL 


The  Sorrow  of  the  Chosen —  The  Way  of  the  Cross 

It  is  no  mere  ceremony — no  mock  sorrow ;  it  is  the 
mingled  wail  of  a  fallen  people.  These  Jews  know  as 
no  others  of  their  race  can  realize  the  depth  of  their 
fall,  and  they  gather  here  to  give  it  voice  —  a 
tonal  and  visual  embodiment  of  despair.  Even  I, 
who  am  not  of  that  race,  felt  all  at  once  the  deadly 
clutch  of  that  vast  grieving,  and  knew  something 
of  what  a  young  Hebrew,  a  member  of  our  party, 
felt  when  he  turned  sick  and  hurried  from  the 
spot. 

What  other  race  has  maintained  an  integrity  of 
sorrow?  What,  for  instance,  does  the  blood  of  Im- 
perial Rome  care  for  its  departed  grandeur  ?  It  does 
not  even  recognize  itself.  What  other  nation  has 
ever  maintained  racial  integrity  of  any  kind?  But, 
then,  these  were  a  chosen  people! 

Chosen,  why  ?  Because  they  were  a  noble  people  ? 
Hardly.  Their  own  chronicles  record  them  as  a 
murmuring,  rebellious,  unstable  race.  Following  the 
history  of  the  chosen  people  from  Jacob  to  Joshua, 
one  is  in  a  constant  state  of  wonder  at  the  divine 
selection.  We  may  admit  that  God  loved  them,  but 
we  seek  in  vain  for  an  excuse.  In  His  last  talk  with 
Moses  He  declared  that  they  would  forsake  Him,  and 
that  He  in  turn  would  forsake  them  and  hide  His  face 
because  of  the  evils  they  should  do. 

Moses,  who  knew  them  even  better,  distrusted  them 
even  more.  "For  I  know  that  after  my  death  ye 
will  utterly  corrupt  yourselves,"  he  said,  almost  with 
his  latest  breath.  He  told  them  that  curses  would 
befall  them,  and  gave  them  a  few  sample  curses,  any 
one  of  which  would  lift  the  bark  off  of  a  tree.     No 

303 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


wonder  he  was  willing  to  lie  down  in  Mount  Nebo 
and  be  at  peace. 

Yet  they  are  a  chosen  people — a  people  apart — a 
race  that  remains  a  race,  and  does  not  perish.  Chosen 
for  what  ?  To  make  a  bitter  example  of  what  a  race 
can  do  when  it  remains  a  race — how  high  it  can  rise 
and  how  low  may  become  its  estate  of  misery  ?  Re- 
member, I  am  not  considering  the  Jew  as  an  individ- 
ual; he  is  often  noble  as  an  individual;  and  it  was 
a  Jew  who  brought  Hght  into  the  world.  I  am  con- 
sidering a  race — a  race  no  worse  than  any  other,  and 
no  better,  but  a  chosen  race;  a  race  that  without  a 
ruler,  without  a  nation,  without  a  government — that 
outcast  and  despised  of  many  nations  has  yet  re- 
mained a  unit  through  three  thousand  years.  I  am 
maintaining  that  only  a  chosen  people  could  do 
that,  and,  without  being  able  even  to  surmise  the 
purpose,  it  is  my  humble  opinion  that  the  ages  will 
show  that  purpose  to  have  been  good. 

I  have  already  inferred  that  the  landmarks  and 
localities  of  Jerusalem  may  be  viewed  with  interest, 
but  not  too  seriously.  They  have  all  associations, 
but  most  of  them  not  the  particular  and  sacred  asso- 
ciations with  which  they  are  supposed  to  be  identified. 
The  majority  of  them  were  not  located  until  Christ 
had  been  dead  for  a  thousand  years,  and  the  means 
of  locating  them  does  not  invite  conviction.  In- 
spiration located  most  of  them,  dreams  the  rest. 
That  is  to  say,  imagination.  Whenever  a  priest  or  a 
dignitary  wanted  to  distinguish  himself  he  discovered 
something.     He   first   made   up   his   mind  what   he 

304 


Copyright,  by  Underwood  &  Underwood. 


the  way  of  the  cross 
(holy  week) 


The  Sorrow  of  the  Chosen — The  Way  of  the  Cross 

would  like  to  discover,  and  then  had  an  inspiration 
or  a  dream,  and  the  thing  was  done.  The  eight 
Stations  of  the  Cross,  for  instance,  were  never  men- 
tioned earlier  than  the  twelfth  century,  and  the  Via 
Dolorosa,  the  Way  of  the  Cross,  was  not  so  known 
until  the  fourteenth.  Still,  it  must  have  been  along 
some  such  street  that  the  Man  of  Sorrow  passed 
between  the  Garden  and  the  Cross. 

We  visited  the  Garden  first.  It  was  now  late  in 
the  afternoon,  and  the  sunlight  had  become  tender 
and  still  and  dream-like,  and  as  we  passed  the  tra- 
ditional places  —  the  house  of  Pilate,  under  the  Ecce 
Homo  arch,  and  the  others,  we  had  the  feeling  that 
it  might  have  been  on  an  evening  like  this  that  the 
Son  of  Man  left  the  city,  and  with  His  disciples  went 
down  to  Gethsemane  to  pray. 

We  were  a  very  small  party  now — there  were  only 
four  of  us  and  the  guide,  for  the  others  had  become 
tired  and  were  willing  to  let  other  things  go.  But  if 
we  were  tired,  we  did  not  know  it,  and  I  shall  always 
be  glad  of  that  fact. 

At  St.  Stephen's  gate  (the  tradition  is  that  he  was 
stoned  there)  we  stopped  to  Idbk  down  on  Gethsem- 
ane. Perhaps  it  is  not  the  real  site,  and  perhaps  the 
curious  gilt-turreted  church  is  not  beautiful,  but  set 
there  on  the  hillside  amid  the  cypresses  and  ven- 
erable olive-trees,  all  aglow  and  agleam  with  the  sun- 
set, with  the  shadow  of  the  dome  of  Omar  creeping 
down  upon  it,  there  was  about  it  a  beauty  of  un- 
reality that  was  positively  supernatural.  I  was  al- 
most tempted  not  to  go  down  there  for  fear  of  spoil- 
ing the  illusion. 

305 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


We  went,  however,  and  the  gnarled  olive  -  trees, 
some  of  which  are  said  to  have  been  there  at  the  time 
of  Christ — and  look  it — were  worth  while.  The  gar- 
den as  a  whole,  however,  was  less  interesting  than 
from  above,  and  it  was  only  the  feeling  that  some- 
where near  here  the  Man  who  would  die  on  Calvary 
asked  that  the  cup  of  sorrow  might  pass  from  Him 
which  made  us  linger. 

It  was  verging  on  twilight  when  we  climbed  to  the 
city,  and  the  others  were  for  going  to  the  hotel.  But 
there  was  one  more  place  I  wanted  to  see.  That  was 
the  hill  outside  of  Jerusalem  which  the  guide-books 
rather  charily  mention  as  "Gordon's  Calvary,"  be- 
cause General  Gordon  once  visited  it  and  accepted 
it  as  the  true  place  of  the  Crucifixion.  I  knew  that 
other  thoughtful  men  had  accepted  it,  too,  and  had 
favored  a  tomb  not  far  away  called  the  ''Garden 
Tomb"  as  the  true  Sepulchre.  I  wanted  to  see 
these  things  and  judge  for  myself.  But  two  of  our 
party  and  the  guide  spoke  no  English,  and  my 
Biblical  German  needed  practice.  There  seemed  to 
be  no  German  word  for  Calvary,  and  when  I  ventured 
into  details  I  floundered.  Still,  I  must  have  struck  a 
spark  somewhere,  for  presently  a  light  illumined  our 
guide's  face: 

"Golgota!  Das  richtige  Golgota"  (the  true  Gol- 
gotha), he  said,  excitedly,  and  then  I  remembered 
that  I  should  have  said  Golgotha,  the  "Place  of  the 
Skull,"  in  the  beginning. 

We  were  away  immediately,  all  of  us,  hurrying  for 
the  Damascus  gate,  beyond  which  it  lay.  It  was  not 
far — nothing  is  far  in  Jerusalem — and  presently  we 

306 


3lC 


cdTO 
o  '^ 

n'< 
•A  ra 


ST 


<  rf 
»  3* 


The  Sorrow  of  the  Chosen — The  Way  of  the  Cross 

were  outside,  at  the  wicket  of  a  tiny  garden — a  sweet, 
orderly  little  place — where  a  pleasant  German  woman 
and  a  tall  old  Englishman  with  a  spiritual  face  were 
letting  us  in.  Then  they  led  us  to  a  little  arbor,  and 
directly — to  a  tomb,  a  real  tomb,  cut  into  the  cliff  over- 
hanging the  garden. 

I  do  not  know  whether  Jesus  was  laid  in  that  tomb 
or  not,  and  it  is  not  likely  that  any  one  will  ever 
know.  But  He  could  have  been  laid  there,  and  it  is 
not  unlikely  that  He  was  laid  there,  for  Golgotha — the 
hill  that  every  unprejudiced  visitor  immediately  ac- 
cepts as  the  true  Golgotha — overlooks  this  garden. 

We  could  not  ascend  the  hill — the  Mohammedans 
no  longer  permit  that — but  we  could  go  to  the  end 
of  the  garden  and  look  up  to  the  little  heap  of  stones 
which  marks  the  old  place  of  stoning  and  of  cruci- 
fixion. It  was  always  the  place  of  public  execution. 
The  Talmud  refers  to  it,  and  the  Jews  of  Jerusalem 
spit  toward  it  to  this  day.  We  could  make  out  the 
contour  of  the  skull  which  gave  it  its  name,  and  even 
the  face,  for  in  its  rocky  side  ancient  tombs  and  clefts 
formed  the  clearly  distinguished  features. 

It  is  a  hill;  it  is  outside  the  walls;  it  is  the  tradi- 
tional site  of  executions;  it  is  the  one  natural  place 
to  which  Jesus  would  have  been  taken  for  crucifixion. 
The  Calvary  in  the  Church  of  the  Holy  Sepulchre  was 
never  a  hill;  it  was  never  outside  the  walls;  it  was 
never  a  traditional  site  for  anything  until  Queen  He- 
lena began  to  dream. 

Perhaps  the  reader  may  say,  "With  all  the  tales 
and  traditions  and  disputes  and  doubts,  what  does  it 
matter  ?"     Perhaps  it  does  not  matter.     Perhaps  that 

307 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


old  question  of  Pilate,  "What  is  truth?"  need  not  be 
answered. 

Yet  somewhere  amid  the  mass  of  confliction  there 
follows  a  thread  of  fact.  Sifting  the  testimony,  it  is 
difficult  to  deny  that  there  once  lived  a  man  named 
Jesus — later,  and  perhaps  then — known  as  the  Christ ; 
that  He  was  of  humble  birth,  and  grew  up  to  teach  a 
doctrine  of  forgiveness  and  humility  (a  doctrine  new 
to  the  Hebrew  teachers  of  His  day,  whose  religion 
consisted  mainly  of  ceremonial  forms) ;  that  He  was 
able  to  heal  the  sick;  that  He  had  a  following  who, 
perhaps,  hailed  Him  as  their  king;  that  it  was  be- 
cause of  these  things  that  He  was  crucified  on  a  hill 
outside  of  Jerusalem. 

I  think  this  is  as  far  as  general  acknowledgment 
goes.  The  Scriptures  declare  more,  the  sceptic  allows 
less;  but  the  majority  of  mankind  unite  on  the  fore- 
going admissions.  At  all  events,  a  great  religion  was 
founded  on  this  man's  life  and  death — a  doctrine  of 
gentleness  when  creeds  are  stripped  away — and  it  is 
proper  that  such  truth  as  can  be  established  concern- 
ing the  ground  He  trod,  especially  on  that  last  dark 
day,  should  be  recognized  and  made  known.  Of  our 
little  party  of  four  there  was  not  one  who — standing 
there  as  the  stars  came  out,  and  looking  up  at  that 
hill  outlined  against  the  sky — did  not  feel  a  full  and 
immediate  conviction  that  this  was  indeed  the  spot 
where  that  last,  supreme  expiation  was  made,  and 
that  this  sweet  garden,  guarded  by  these  two  gentle 
people,  was  the  truer  site  for  the  Sepulchre  which  was 
"nigh  at  hand." 


XXXVI 

AT   THE    MOUTH    OF   THE    NILE 

I  AM  not  a  gifted  person;  I  cannot  write  about 
existing  places  and  things  without  seeing  them, 
and  I  am  afraid  to  steal  from  the  guide-book — 
unintelligently,  I  mean.  I  have  sometimes  found  the 
guid  -book  mistaken — not  often,  I  admit,  but  too 
often  to  take  chances.  I  should  be  struck  with 
remorse  if  I  should  steal  from  the  guide-book  and 
then  find  that  I  had  stolen  a  mistake.  So  I  shall 
have  to  skip  Galilee,  Tiberias,  Nazareth,  and  Hebron, 
for  the  reason  that  I  could  not  visit  those  and  include 
Egypt,  too,  by  our  schedule. 

One  must  go  to  Egypt.  If  the  "grand  object  of  all 
travel  is  to  visit  the  shores  of  the  Mediterranean," 
then  the  grand  climax  of  that  tour  is  Egypt.  One 
must  take  all  the  time  there  is  for  that  amazing  land, 
and  any  time  will  be  too  short,  even  though  it  be  a 
lifetime. 

The  guide-book  says  that  the  arrival  at  Alexandria 
is  not  very  impressive.  I  suppose  a  good  deal  depends 
on  the  day  and  the  time  of  day  and  one's  mental 
attitude.  As  usual  with  our  arrivals,  it  was  early 
morning,  and  everything  was  hazy  and  yellow-misty 
with  sunrise.  We  were  moving  slowly,  and  the  water 
was  glassy  still.  Here  and  there  across  the  yellow 
haze  drifted  a  barge-like  craft  with  a  lateen-sail,  or 

309 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


a  slow  moving  boat,  pulled  by  men  in  native  dress. 
Then  out  of  the  mist  across  the  port  bow  came  the 
outline  of  a  low-lying  shore,  and  a  shaft  that  rose,  a 
vague  pencil  against  the  morning  glow.  The  Diplo- 
mat was  leaning  on  the  rail  at  my  side. 

''Egypt,"  he  said,  quietly.  "That  is  a  lighthouse 
— they  call  it  a  pharos,  after  the  one  that  Ptolemy 
built ;  it  must  have  stood  about  in  the  same  direction." 

Certainly  that  was  not  very  dramatic,  not  actively 
so  at  least,  but  to  me  it  was  impressive;  and  stealing 
into  that  dream-like  harbor,  through  the  mellow  quiet 
of  the  morning,  I  had  the  feeling  that  we  were  creeping 
up  on  the  past — catching  it  asleep,  as  it  were ;  that 
this  was  indeed  the  pharos  of  the  Ptolemies  —  the 
harbor  they  had  known. 

I  shall  always  remember  Alexandria,  Egypt.  I 
shall  always  remember  the  railway  station  with  its 
wild  hallabaloo  of  Arab  porters,  who  grab  one's  hand- 
baggage,  make  off  with  it,  and  sit  on  it  in  a  secluded 
place  until  you  race  around  and  hunt  it  up  and 
produce  baksheesh  for  its  return.  You  do  not  check 
baggage  in  Egypt,  by  the  way ;  you  register  it,  which 
means  that  you  tell  somebody  about  it,  then  try  to 
convince  yourself  that  it  is  all  right  and  that  some 
day  you  will  see  it  again. 

But  I  shall  remember  that  station  for  another 
reason.  When  we  had  finally  fought  our  way  through 
to  the  train,  and  Laura  and  I  had  placed  our  things 
here  and  there  in  our  compartment — in  the  racks  and 
about — we  realized  that  we  were  hot  and  thirsty, 
and  I  said  I  would  slip  back  and  get  some  oranges, 
seeing  we  had  plenty  of  time. 

310 


At  the  Mouth  of  the  Nile 


It  was  easy  to  do  that — easy  enough,  I  mean,  for 
I  no  longer  had  anything  for  the  Bedouins  to  grab. 
I  got  the  oranges  and  paid  a  piastre  apiece  for 
them  —  about  ten  times  what  they  were  worth  in 
Jaffa,  and  I  had  the  usual  difficulty  making  change 
—  a  detachment  of  interested  Arabs  looking  on 
meanwhile.  Then  I  started  back,  and  was  stopped 
by  a  guard  who  wanted  to  see  my  ticket.  I  felt  for 
the  flat  leather  case  which  I  generally  carry  in  my 
hip-pocket.     It  was  gone! 

If  there  had  been  anything  resembling  a  chair 
there  I  should  have  sat  down.  As  it  was  I  took  hold 
of  the  little  railing,  for  my  knees  had  a  watery  feeling 
which  I  felt  was  not  to  be  trusted.  That  pocket-book 
contained  my  letter  of  credit;  all  my  money,  except 
a  little  change;  my  tickets,  my  character — everything 
that  an  unprotected  stranger  is  likely  to  need  in  a 
strange  land!  When  I  got  my  breath  I  dived  into 
all  my  pockets  at  once,  then  went  through  them 
categorically,  as  much  as  three  times  apiece.  I  had 
never  realized  I  owned  so  many  pockets  or  that  they 
could  be  so  empty,  so  useless. 

Those  Bedouins  had  done  it,  of  course.  I  rushed 
back  to  the  orange-man,  and  in  a  mixture  of  three 
languages  which  nobody,  not  even  myself,  could 
understand,  explained  my  loss.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  in  French,  elevated  his  hands  in  Egyptian, 
and  said  ''No  can  tell"  in  English.  I  glared  around 
at  the  contiguous  Bedouins,  but  they  all  looked  dis- 
interestedly guilty.  In  a  mixed  daze  I  went  back 
to  the  guard,  and  crept  through  when  he  was  attend- 
ing to  another  passenger.     I  still  held  the  bag  of 

3" 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


oranges,  and  handed  them  to  Laura,  who  was  quietly- 
waiting,  looking  out  the  window  at  the  passing  show. 
Little  did  she  guess  my  condition,  and  how  could  I 
tell  her? 

It  was  quite  by  chance  that  I  glanced  up  at  the 
overhead  rack  where  I  had  stowed  our  smaller 
packages.  Ah  me!  The  gates  of  bliss  open  wide 
will  never  be  a  more  inspiring  sight  than  what  I 
saw  there.  There  it  lay — that  precious  pocket-book! 
In  the  disordered  mental  state  of  our  arrival  I  had 
for  some  unguessed  reason  taken  out  my  pocket-case 
and  laid  it  there  with  the  other  items.  It  was  safe — 
safe  in  every  detail.  The  world  suddenly  became 
glorified.  Those  Bedouins  were  my  brothers.  I 
would  have  gone  back  and  embraced  them  if  the  train 
had  not  begun  to  move. 

Yes,  I  shall  always  remember  Alexandria. 

There  is  a  continuous  panorama  between  Alex- 
andria and  Cairo,  absolutely  fascinating  to  one  who 
has  not  seen  it  before,  and  I  wonder  how  it  can  ever 
grow  old  to  any  one.  Almost  immediately  there  was 
water — the  Nile,  or  one  of  its  canals — and  stretch- 
ing away,  a  dead  level  of  green  —  lavish,  luxurious, 
blossoming  green — the  delta-land  of  Lower  Egypt, 
the  richest  garden  in  all  the  world.  A  network  of 
irrigation;  mud  villages  that  might  have  been  made 
by  wasps;  a  low-dropping  sky  that  met  the  level 
green  —  these  made  a  background,  and  against  it, 
along  the  raised  road  that  follows  the  Nile,  an  endless 
procession  passed. 

A  man  riding  a  camel,  leading  another;  a  boy 
watering  two  buffaloes;    an  Arab  walking,  followed 

312 


At  the  Mouth  of  the  Nile 


by  his  wife  and  a  string  of  loaded  donkeys;  ditto 
camels;  a  cow  grinding  an  old  Egyptian  water-mill 
that  has  been  in  use  since  Pharaoh's  time;  two  men 
turning  an  Archimedes  screw  to  lift  the  water  to 
their  fields — so  the  pictures  whirl  by.  The  Orient 
has  become  familiar  to  us,  yet  for  some  reason  the 
atmosphere,  the  impression,  is  wholly  different  here, 
because — I  cannot  tell  why — because  this  is  Egypt,  I 
suppose,  and  there  is  only  one  Egypt,  a  fact  easier  to 
realize  than  to  explain. 

The  day  was  well  along  when  we  reached  Cairo 
and,  after  the  usual  battle  with  the  Ishmaelites,  drove 
to  Shepheard's  Hotel.  As  there  is  only  one  Egypt, 
so  there  is  only  one  Shepheard's  Hotel.  There  are 
other  hotels  as  large  and  as  lavish,  with  as  fair  gardens, 
perhaps,  but  I  believe  there  is  no  other  hotel  on  the 
planet  where  you  can  sit  on  a  vast  balmy  terrace 
and  look  down  on  such  a  panorama  of  the  nations — 
American,  European,  Asiatic,  African — such  a  uni- 
versal congress  of  pleasure  as  each  winter  assembles 
here.  It  would  take  a  more  riotous  pen  than  mine  to 
achieve  a  description  of  that  mixture.  If  the  reader 
can  imagine  a  World's  Fair  Midway  of  every  nation- 
ality and  every  costume  and  every  language  and  mode 
of  locomotion  under  the  sun,  and  can  see  mingled 
with  it  all  the  dark- faced  sellers  of  shawls  and  scarabs, 
and  beads  and  relics,  the  picture  will  serve,  and  we 
will  let  it  go  at  that. 

And  perhaps  I  may  as  well  say  here  that  Cairo  is 
the  wildest,  freest  place  in  Christendom.  The  con- 
fluence of  Upper  and  Lower  Egypt — the  Delta  and 
the  Nile— here  on  the  edge  of  the  desert,  it  is  the 

313 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


veritable  jumping-off  place  where  all  conventions 
melt  away.  It  is  the  neutral  ground  where  East  and 
West  meet — each  to  adopt  the  special  privilege  and 
license  of  the  other — madly  to  compete  in  lavishness 
of  dress  and  the  reckless  joy  of  living.  In  the  language 
of  the  Reprobates,  ''One  gets  his  money's  worth  in 
Cairo,  if  he  makes  his  headquarters  at  Shepheard's 
and  sits  in  the  game."  But  he  will  require  a  certain 
capital  to  make  good  his  ante.  If  I  hadn't  found  that 
pocket-book  at  Alexandria  I  should  have  taken  my 
meals  with  the  Arabs  in  the  back  basement. 

The  Arab,  by-the-way,  is  the  general  servitor  in 
the  Egyptian  hotel.  You  ring  three  times  when  you 
want  him,  and  he  is  as  picturesque  and  gentle  a 
Bedouin  as  ever  held  up  a  camel  train  or  slew  a 
Christian  to  glorify  his  faith.  He  is  naive  and  noise- 
less, and  whatever  you  ask  him  for  he  says  **Yes," 
and  if  you  ask  him  if  he  understands  he  says  "Yes," 
and  you  will  never  know  whether  he  does  or  not  until 
you  see  what  he  brings.  It  does  not  help  matters 
to  talk  loudly  to  the  Arab.  Volume  of  sound  does 
not  increase  his  lingual  gifts,  and  spelling  the  article 
is  likewise  wasted  effort.  Ladies  sometimes  try  that 
method.  Tfie  trunk  of  one  of  our  party  had  not 
reached  her  room — and  she  needed  it. 

''My  trunk,"  she  said  to  the  Arab.  ''You  know, 
trunk — t-r-u-n-k,  trunk — yes,  trunk,  with  my  name 
on  it — you  know — n-a-m-e — my  initials,  I  mean,  you 
know— T.  D.— T.  D.  on  both  ends." 

The  Arab  did  know  "trunk";  the  rest  was  mere 
embroidery. 


XXXVII 

THE    SMILE    OF   THE    SPHINX 

THERE  was  not  much  left  of  the  afternoon  when 
we  reached  Cairo,  but  some  of  us  wandered  off 
here  and  there  to  get  the  habit  of  the  place,  as  it 
were.  Laura  and  I  came  to  a  trolley-line  present- 
ly, and  found  that  it  ran  out  to  the  Pyramids  and 
Sphinx.  We  were  rather  shocked  at  the  thought, 
but  recovered  and  decided  to  steal  a  march  on  the 
others  by  slipping  out  there  and  having  those  old 
wonders  all  to  ourselves,  at  sunset. 

It  is  a  long  way.  You  pass  through  streets  of 
many  kinds  and  by  houses  of  many  sorts,  and  you 
cross  the  Nile  and  glide  down  an  avenue  of  palms 
where  there  are  glimpses  of  water — the  infinite  desert 
stretching  away  into  the  evening.  Long  before  we 
reached  them  we  saw  the  outlines  of  the  three  pyra- 
mids against  the  sky,  and  then  we  made  out  the 
Sphinx — that  old  group  which  is  perhaps  the  most 
familiar  picture  that  children  know. 

Yet,  somehow,  it  could  not  be  true  that  this  was  the 
reality  of  the  pictures  we  had  seen.  The  likeness 
was  very  great,  certainly,  but  those  pictures  had 
represented  something  in  a  realm  of  books  and 
romance — the  unattainable  land — ^while  these  were 
here;  we  were  actually  going  to  them,  and  in  a 
trolley-car!     It  required  all  the  spell  of  Egypt  then 

31S 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


— the  palms,  the  desert,  and  the  evening  sky — to  fit 
the  reality  into  its  old  place  in  the  hall  of  dreams. 

We  had  thought  to  have  a  quiet  view,  but 
this  was  a  miscalculation.  There  is  no  such  thing 
as  a  quiet  view  of  the  Pyramids.  At  any  hour  of  the 
day  or  night  you  are  immediately  beset  by  beggars 
and  fortune  -  tellers  and  would  -  be  guides,  and  you 
are  pulled  and  dragged  and  distracted  by  their  im- 
portunities until  you  have  lost  all  interest  in  your 
original  purpose  in  a  general  desire  to  start  a  plague 
or  a  massacre  that  will  wipe  out  the  whole  pestiferous 
crew.  There  is  no  hope,  except  in  the  employment 
of  one  or  two  of  the  guides — the  strongest-looking 
ones,  who  will  in  a  certain  measure  keep  off  the 
others — and  you  will  have  to  engage  donkeys,  and 
perhaps  have  your  fortune  told.  Otherwise  these 
creatures  will  follow  you  and  surround  you,  insisting 
that  they  want  no  money;  that  they  only  love  you; 
that  it  makes  them  happy  even  to  be  near  you ;  that 
they  love  all  Americans;  that,  in  short,  for  a  shilling, 
just  a  shilling,  and  a  baksheesh  (a  piastre),  one  little 
baksheesh,  they  will  become  your  guide,  your  slave, 
the  dirt  under  your  feet — "Ah,  mister — ze  Sphinkis, 
ze  Pyramid,  aevry-zing!"  It  is  a  disgrace  to  Egypt, 
and  to  England  who  is  in  charge  here  now,  that  such 
persecution  is  permitted  in  the  shadow  of  one  of  the 
world's  most  revered  and  imposing  ruins. 

We  engaged  donkeys,  at  last,  after  there  had  been 
several  fights  over  us,  and  set  out  up  the  road  to  the 
Great  Pyramid,  assailed  every  little  way  by  bandits 
lying  in  wait.  The  Great  Pyramid  does  not  improve 
with   close    acquaintance.     It    has   been    too    much 

316 


The  Smile  of  the  Sphinx 


damaged  by  time  and  criminal  assault.  It  loses  its 
clean-cut  outlines  as  you  come  near  and  becomes 
little  more  than  a  stupendous  heap  of  stones.  I 
think  we  were  a  trifle  disappointed  with  a  close 
inspection,  to  tell  the  truth,  for  even  the  largest 
pictures  do  not  give  one  quite  the  impression  of 
the  reality.  It  was  as  if  we  had  been  gazing  at  some 
marvellous  painting,  and  then  had  walked  up  very 
near  to  see  how  the  work  was  done. 

The  charm  came  back  as  we  rode  off  a  little  and 
turned  to  view  it  now  and  again  in  the  evening  light. 
The  irregularities  disappeared;  the  outlines  became 
clean  against  the  sky;  I  was  no  longer  disappointed 
in  that  giant  of  architecture  whose  shadow  (it  lay 
now  just  at  our  feet)  began  marking  time  at  a  period 
when  the  world  had  no  recorded  history. 

Yet  in  one  or  two  respects  the  reality  differed  from 
the  dream.  Usually  stone  grows  gray  with  age  and 
takes  on  moss  and  lichen — the  mould  of  time.  The 
Pyramids  are  entirely  bare,  and  they  are  not  gray. 
The  stones  might  have  been  laid  up  yesterday  so  far 
as  any  vegetable  increment  is  concerned,  and  their 
color  is  a  tawny  gold — luminous  gold  in  the  sunset, 
like  the  barren  hills  beyond.  The  daily  sandblast 
of  the  desert  will  level  these  monuments  m  time, 
no  doubt,  but  the  last  fragment  in  that  remote  age 
will  still  be  bare  and  in  color  unchanged. 

As  with  the  Pyramids,  our  first  impression  of  the 
Sphinx  was  one  of  disappointment.  It  seemed 
small  to  us.  It  is  small  compared  with  a  pyramid, 
while  the  photographs  give  one  another  idea.  The 
photographs   are   made  with  the  Sphinkis  (Sphinx, 

21  317 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


I  mean — one  falls  so  easily  into  the  native  speech) 
in  the  foreground,  looking  fully  as  big  as  the  second- 
size  pyramid  and  quite  able  to  have  the  third-size 
pyramid  for  breakfast.  Figures  mean  nothing  in  the 
face  of  a  picture  like  that;  you  comprehend  them, 
but  you  do  not  realize  them — visualize  them,  perhaps 
I  ought  to  say. 

So  the  Sphinx  seemed  small  to  us  as  we  approached, 
and  even  when  we  were  on  the  immediate-  brink  of 
sand,  gazing  down  upon  it,  its  sixty  -  five  feet  of 
stature  seemed  reduced  from  the  image  in  our 
minds. 

But  the  Sphinx  grows  on  one.  As  the  light  faded 
and  the  shadows  softened  its  scarred  features  there 
came  also  a  dignity  and  with  it  a  feeling  of  immensity, 
of  grandeur,  a  vast  indifference  to  all  puny  things. 
And  then — perhaps  it  was  the  light,  perhaps  it  was 
because  I  stood  at  a  particular  angle,  but  certainly — 
standing  just  there,  at  that  moment,  I  saw,  or 
fancied  I  saw,  about  its  serene  lips  the  suggestion  or 
beginning  of  a  smile.  The  more  I  looked,  the  more 
certain  of  it  I  became,  and  when  I  spoke  of  it  to 
Laura,  she  saw  it,  too.  Yes,  undoubtedly  we  had 
caught  the  Sphinx  smiling — not  outwardly,  at  least 
not  openly,  but  quietly,  quizzically — smiling  inside 
as  one  might  say.  I  could  not  understand  it  then, 
but  later  it  came  to  me. 

Back  at  the  hotel,  to-night,  I  thought  it  out.  I 
remembered  that  the  Sphinx  had  been  there  a  long 
time;  nobody  knows  how  long,  but  a  very  long  time 
indeed.     I  remembered  that  it  had  seen  a  number  of 

318 


The  Smile  of  the  Sphinx 


things — a  very  great  number  of  things.  I  remembered 
that  it  had  seen  one  very  curious  thing,  to  wit : 

A  long  time  ago,  when  a  certain  Pharaoh — we  can 
only  guess  which  Pharaoh — ruled  over  Egypt,  it  saw 
a  young  man  who  had  been  sold  into  bondage  from 
Syria  rise  in  the  king's  favor  through  certain  dreams 
and  become  his  chief  counsellor,  even  "ruler  over  all 
the  land  of  Egypt."  It  saw  him  in  the  height  of  his 
power  and  glory  bring  his  family,  who  were  Syrian 
shepherds,  down  from  their  barren  hills  and  establish 
them  in  the  favor  of  the  Egyptian  king.  The  Sphinx 
was  old — a  thousand  years  old,  at  least,  even  then — 
and,  being  wise,  heard  with  certain  curiosity  their 
claim  that  they  were  a  "chosen  people,"  and  thought- 
fully watched  them  multiply  through  a  few  brief 
centuries  into  a  band  of  servitors  who,  because  of 
this  tradition,  held  themselves  a  race  apart,  repeating 
tales  of  a  land  of  promise  which  they  would  some  day 
inherit.  Then  at  last,  during  a  period  of  visitation, 
the  Sphinx  saw  them  escape,  taking  what  they  could 
lay  their  hands  on,  straggling  away,  with  their  families 
and  their  flocks,  toward  the  Red  Sea.  The  Sphinx 
heard  nothing  more  of  that  tribe  for  about  three 
thousand  years. 

Then  an  amazing  thing  happened.  Among  those 
who  came  to  wonder  at  the  Sphinx's  age  and  mystery 
were  some  who  repeated  tales  of  that  runaway  band 
— tales  magnified  and  embroidered  almost  beyond 
recognition  —  and,  what  was  more  curious,  accepted 
them — not  as  such  tales  are  usually  accepted,  with  a 
heavy  basis  of  discount — but  as  gospel ;  inspired  truth  ; 
the  foundation  of  a  mighty  religion;  the  word  of  God. 

319 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


Nor  was  that  all.  The  Sphinx  realized  presently 
that  not  only  were  those  old  stories  accepted  as 
gospel  by  the  descendants  of  the  race  themselves,  but 
by  a  considerable  number  of  the  human  race  at  large 
— accepted  and  debated  in  a  most  serious  manner, 
even  to  the  point  of  bloodshed. 

Some  details  of  this  inspired  chronology  were 
wholly  new  to  the  Sphinx.  It  was  interesting,  for 
example,  to  hear  that  there  had  been  three  million 
of  those  people,  and  that  before  they  started  there 
had  been  a  time  when  the  Nile  had  been  turned  to 
blood — twice,  in  fact :  once  by  the  grace  of  God  and 
once  by  magicians.  The  Sphinx  did  not  remember 
a  time  when  the  Nile  had  turned  to  blood.  In  the 
five  thousand  years  and  more  of  its  existence  it  had 
never  heard  of  a  magician  who  could  produce  that 
result.  It  was  interesting,  too,  to  learn  that  the  Red 
Sea  had  opened  a  way  for  those  people  to  cross,  and 
that  the  hosts  of  Egypt,  trying  to  follow  them,  had 
been  swallowed  up  and  drowned.  This  was  wholly 
new.  The  Sphinx  had  been  there  and  seen  all  that 
had  happened,  but  she  had  somehow  missed  those 
things. 

Not  that  the  Sphinx  was  surprised  at  these  em- 
broideries. She  had  seen  several  mythologies  cre- 
ated, and  knew  the  general  scale  of  enlargement  and 
glorification.  It  was  only  when  she  saw  strong, 
cultured,  and  enlightened  nations  still  accepting  the 
old  Hebrew  poem — with  all  its  stately  figures  and 
exaggerations — as  gospel ;  heard  them  actually  trying 
to  prove  that  a  multitude  as  big  as  the  census  of 
Australia  had  marched  out  with  its  chattels  and  its 

320 


The  Smile  of  the  Sphinx 


flocks ;  heard  them  vow  that  the  Red  Sea  had  parted 
long  enough  to  let  this  population  pass  through; 
heard  them  maintain  that  this  vast  assembly  had 
found  shade  and  refreshment  on  the  other  side  by 
twelve  wells  of  water  and  under  seventy  palm-trees: 
heard  them  tell  how  the  sea  behind  them  had  suddenly 
rushed  together  and  swallowed  up  all  the  Egyptian 
army  (including  the  king  himself,  some  said) — it  was 
only  when  the  Sphinx  heard  learned  men  argue  these 
things  as  facts  that  a  smile — scarcely  perceptible, 
yet  still  a  smile — began  to  grow  behind  the  stone  lips. 
That  is  the  smile  we  saw  to-night — a  quiet  smile,  a 
gracious  smile,  a  compassionate  smile — and  as  it  has 
grown  so  slowly,  so  it  will  not  soon  depart.  For  by-and- 
by,  when  these  ages  have  passed,  and  with  them  their 
story  and  their  gospels — when  those  old  chronicles  of 
the  Jews  have  been  relegated  to  the  realm  of  mythol- 
ogy for  a  thousand  years — there  may  come  another 
band  who  will  establish  their  traditions  as  God's  holy 
word,  and  the  Sphinx — still  remaining,  still  observing, 
still  looking  across  the  encompassing  sands  to  the 
sunrise — will  smile,  and  dream  old  dreams. 


XXXVIII 

WAYS    THAT   ARE    EGYPTIAN 

[WONDER  why  we  are  always  taken  first  to  the 
mosques,  or  why,  when  our  time  is  pretty  limited, 
we  are  taken  to  them  at  all.  Mosques  are  well 
enough,  but  when  you  have  seen  a  pretty  exhaustive 
line  of  them  in  Turkey  and  Syria,  Egypt  cannot 
furnish  any  very  startling  attractions  in  this  field. 
For  mosques  are  modern  (anything  less  than  a  thou- 
sand years  old  is  modern  to  us  now),  and  Egypt 
is  not  a  land  of  modem  things.  Besides,  here  in  Cairo 
there  are  such  a  number  of  fascinating  out-of-the-way 
comers  which  we  are  dying  to  see  —  unholy  side- 
streets,  picturesquely  hidden  nooks,  and  mysterious, 
shut-in  life ;  besides  all  the  bazaars — 

Never  mind ;  the  mosques  did  have  a  certain  inter- 
est, especially  the  mosque  of  Al-Azhar,  which  is  nine 
hundred  years  old  and  built  about  a  great  court — an 
old  mosque  when  America  was  still  undiscovered — 
and  the  mosque  of  Hassan,  ''whose  prayer  will  nevair 
be  accept,"  Abraham  said  (Abraham  being  our 
guide),  ''because  when  ze  architec'  have  finish,  ze 
Sultan  Hassan  have  cut  off  hees  han'  so  he  cannot 
pro-duce  him  again."  Napoleon's  first  gun  in  Egypt 
hit  a  minaret  of  Hassan's  mosque,  it  is  said,  and  it 
has  had  bad  luck  generally,  perhaps  because  of  the 
cruel  act  of  its  royal  builder.     We  were  not  even 

322 


Ways   That  Are  Egyptian 


required  to  put  on  slippers  to  enter  it,  so  it  can- 
not be  held  in  very  great  veneration.  Then  there  is 
the  mosque  of  Mohammed  AH,  built  within  the  last 
century  and  modem  throughout,  the  only  mosque 
in  the  world,  I  believe,  to  have  electric  lights ! 

It  was  Mohammed  AH  who  settled  the  Mameluke 
problem  in  the  conclusive  way  which  sultans  adopt 
at  times.  The  Mamelukes  were  the  Janizaries  of 
Egypt,  though  fewer  in  number.  Still,  there  were 
enough  of  them  to  make  trouble  and  keep  matters 
stirred  up,  and  AH  grew  tired  of  them.  So  did  the 
public,  according  to  our  guide: 

**  AH,  he  say  to  some  people,  'You  Hke  get  rid  of 
zose  Mameluke  ?'  an'  ah  ze  people  say,  *  Yez,  of  course.' 
So  AH  he  make  big  dinner,  an'  ze  Mameluke  come  an' 
eat,  an'  have  fine,  big  time." 

It  was  on  the  ist  of  March,  1811,  that  AH  issued  his 
general  invitation  to  the  Mameluke  leaders  to  attend 
a  function  at  the  Citadel ;  and,  after  entertaining  them 
hospitably,,  invited  them  to  march  through  a  nar- 
row passageway,  which  was  suddenly  closed  at  each 
end,  while  from  above  opened  a  musket-fire  that 
presently  concluded  those  Mamelukes — 470  of  them — 
with  the  exception  of  one  man,  who  is  said  to  have 
leaped  his  horse  through  a  window  down  a  hundred 
feet  or  so,  where  he  ''Jump  from  hees  horse  and  run — 
run  fas'  to  Jaffa!"  which  was  natural  enough. 

There  was  only  one  trouble  with  that  story.  Abra- 
ham did  not  explain  how  this  particular  Mameluke 
came  to  have  his  horse  at  luncheon,  and  why,  with 
or  without  horses,  a  number  of  those  other  Mamelukes 
did  not  follow  him.    Every  Mameluke  of  my  acquaint- 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


ance  would  have  gone  through  that  window,  mounted 
or  otherwise,  and  without  calculating  the  distance 
to  the  ground.  However,  Abraham  showed  us  the 
passage  and  the  place  of  the  leap,  and  later  the  graves 
of  the  470,  all  of  which  was  certainly  convincing. 
Following  the  removal  of  the  leaders,  a  general  burial 
of  Mamelukes  took  place  throughout  Egypt,  since 
which  time  members  of  that  organization  have  been 
extremely  hard  to  catch.  It  must  have  been  Ali's 
neat  solution  of  the  Mameluke  problem  which  fifteen 
years  later  was  copied  in  Constantinople  by  Mahmoud 
II.,  when  he  disposed  of  the  Janizaries. 

It  was  at  the  tomb  of  a  distinguished  pasha — a 
fine,  inviting  place — that  we  saw  a  small  green  piece 
of  the  robe  of  Abraham.  It  was  incorporated  in  a 
very  sacred  rug,  one  of  the  twelve  which  Cairo, 
Constantinople,  and  Damascus  contribute  to  Mecca 
each  year.  We  asked  how  Abraham's  robe  could  hold 
out  this  way,  and  his  namesake  shrugged  and  smiled : 

"Oh,  zay  take  little  piece  of  ze  real  robe  an'  roll 
him  'roun'  an'  'roun'  wiz  many  piece  of  goods,  an' 
zay  become  all  ze  robe  of  Abraham." 

Thus  does  a  thread  leaven  a  whole  wardrobe. 

Laura  and  I  escaped  then.  We  did  not  care  for 
any  more  tombs  and  mosques,  and  we  did  care  a  great 
deal  for  a  street  we  had  noticed  where,  squatted  on 
the  ground  on  both  sides  of  it,  their  wares  spread  in 
the  dust,  were  sellprs  of  certain  trinkets  and  jars 
which,  though  not  of  the .  past,  had  a  fatal  lure  we 
could  not  all  forget.  Our  driver  was  a  black,  scarred 
semi-Nubian  who  looked  as  if  he  had  been  through  a 
fire,  and  had  possibly  five  words  of  EngHsh.     It  does 

324 


Ways   That  Are  Egyptian 


not  matter — Menelek  (so  we  named  him)  served  us 
well,  and  will  retain  a  place  in  my  affections. 

We  took  the  back  track,  and  presently  were  in  the 
street  of  small  sellers,  driving  carefully,  for  there 
was  barely  room  to  pass  between  their  displayed 
goods.  Here  and  there  we  stooped  to  inspect,  and 
we  bought  a  water- jar  for  a  piastre — an  Egyptian 
piastre,  which  is  really  money  and  worth  exactly 
five  cents.  Beyond  the  jars  was  a  woman  selling 
glass  bracelets,  such  as  the  Arab  women  wear.  I 
had  wanted  some  of  those  from  the  beginning.  I 
picked  out  a  gay  handful,  and  then  discovered  I  had 
only  a  gold  twenty- franc  piece  to  pay  with.  The 
woman  had  never  owned  twenty  francs,  and  no 
seller  in  the  neighborhood  could  furnish  the  change. 
So  I  handed  it  to  Menelek,  who  grinned  and  disap- 
peared while  we  sat  there  in  the  carriage  waiting. 

I  suppose  he  had  to  go  miles  in  that  neighborhood 
for  as  much  change  as  that.  I  know  we. sat  there  in 
the  sun  and  looked  at  all  the  curious  things  in  all 
the  assortments  about  us,  over  and  over,  and  dis- 
cussed them  and  wondered  if  Menelek  would  ever 
return.  It  became  necessary  at  last  that  he  should 
do  so.  No  vehicle  could  pass  us  in  that  narrow 
thoroughfare,  and  in  a  string  behind  there  was 
collecting  as  motley  an  assortment  of  curiosities  as 
ever  were  gathered  in  a  menagerie.  There  was  a 
curious  two-wheeled  cart  or  dray,  drawn  by  water- 
buffaloes,  upon  which  a  man  had  his  collection  of 
wives  out  for  an  airing;  there  was  a  camel  loaded 
with  huge  water-jars  until  they  projected  out  over 
the  heads  of  the  selling  people;   there  was  a  load  of 

325 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


hay  drawn  by  a  cow;  there  was  a  donkey  train  that 
reached  back  to  the  end  of  the  street,  and  what  lay 
beyond  only  Allah  knew. 

The  East  is  patient,  but  even  the  East  has  its  limits. 
Presently  we  began  to  be  interviewed  by  dark  men — 
camel-drivers  and  the  like — who  had  a  way  of  flinging 
up  their  hands,  while  from  behind  came  a  rising  tide 
of  what  I  assumed  to  be  imprecation. 

We  were  calm — that  is,  we  assured  each  other  that 
we  were  calm — and  we  told  them  quite  pleasantly 
how  matters  stood.  The  result  was  not  encouraging. 
One  Bedouin  grabbed  the  bridle,  and  I  was  at  the 
point  of  slaying  him  with  my  water-jar  when  at  the 
same  moment  appeared  a  member  of  the  Cairo  police 
— one  of  those  with  a  tall  red  fez — also  Menelek,  our 
long  -  lost  Menelek,  with  the  change,  out  of  which 
there  was  baksheesh  for  the  discontented  drivers. 
Everything  was  all  right  then.  We  headed  the  pro- 
cession. Behind  us  came  the  buffalo-cart — the  wives, 
sandwiched  fore  and  aft  and  smiling — the  camel 
with  his  distended  load  of  jars;  the  heaped-up  little 
hay-wagon;  the  string  of  donkeys  all  in  blue  beads, 
with  heaven  knows  what  else  trailing  down  the  dis- 
tance. All  the  curses  were  removed;  all  the  drivers 
singing ;  traffic  congestion  in  the  East  was  over. 

One  of  the  first  things  we  had  noticed  in  Egypt  was 
the  curious  brass  spool  affair  which  Arab  women 
wear,  suspended  perpendicularly  across  the  forehead, 
from  the  headgear  to  the  top  of  their  veil.  It  ex- 
tends from  the  nose  upward,  and  has  sharp,  saw-like 
ridges  on  it,  which  look  as  if  they  would  cut  in. 
When  we  asked  about  these  things  we  were  told  that 

326 


Ways   That  Are  Egyptian 


they  were  worn  to  avert  the  evil  eye,  also  as  a  handy 
means  by  which  the  husband  may  correct  any  little 
indiscretion  on  the  part  of  one  of  his  wives.  He 
merely  has  to  tap  that  brass  spool  with  his  cane  or 
broomstick,  or  whatever  is  handy,  and  it  cuts  in  and 
neatly  reminds  the  wearer  that  she  is  a  woman  and 
had  better  behave.  Family  discipline  has  matured 
in  this  ancient  land. 

I  explained  to  Menelek  now,  in  some  fashion,  that 
I  wanted  one  of  those  brass  things;  whereupon  we 
entered  the  narrow  and  thronging  thoroughfare  of 
commerce — a  gay  place,  with  all  sorts  of  showy  wares 
lavishly  displayed  —  and  went  weaving  in  and  out 
among  the  crowd  to  find  it.  Every  other  moment 
Menelek  would  shout  something  that  sounded  exactly 
like,  "Oh,  I  mean  it!  Oh,  I  mean  it!"  which  made  us 
wonder  what  he  meant  in  that  emphatic  way. 

Then  all  at  once  he  changed  to,  "Oh,  I  schm£ll  it! 
Oh,  I  schmell  it  V 

"That's  all  right,"  we  said;  "so  do  we,"  for,  though 
Cairo  is  cleaner  than  Constantinople,  it  was  not  over- 
sweet  just  there.  But  presently,  when  he  changed 
again  to,  "Oh,  I  eat  it!  Oh,  I  eat  it!"  we  drew  the 
line.     We  said,  "No,  we  do  not  go  as  far  as  that." 

We  have  learned  now  that  those  calls  are  really 
"0-i-menuk,  o-i-schmeluk,"  etc.,  and  indicate  that 
some  one  is  to  turn  to  the  right  or  left,  or  simply  get 
out  of  the  way,  as  the  case  may  be.  We  used  them 
ourselves  after  that,  which  gave  Menelek  great  joy. 


XXXIX 

WHERE    HISTORY    BEGAN 

WHEN  I  glanced  casually  over  the  little  heap  of 
hand-bags  that  would  accompany  our  party  up 
the  Nile — we  were  then  waiting  on  the  terrace  of 
Shepheard's  for  the  carriages — I  noticed  that  my  own 
did  not  appear  to  be  of  the  number.  I  mentioned 
this  to  the  guides,  to  the  head-porter,  to  the  clerk, 
to  casual  Bedouins  in  the  hotel  uniform,  without 
arousing  any  active  interest.  Finally,  I  went  on  a 
still  hunt  on  my  own  account.  I  found  the  missing 
bag  out  in  the  back  area-way,  with  a  Bedouin  whom 
I  had  not  seen  before  sitting  on  it,  smoking  dreamily 
and  murmuring  a  song  about  lotus  and  moonlight  and 
the  spell  of  his  lady's  charms.  Growing  familiar  with 
the  habits  of  the  country,  I  dispossessed  him  with  my 
foot  and  marched  back  through  the  vast  corridors 
carrying  my  bag  myself.  Still,  I  am  sorry  now  I 
didn't  contribute  the  baksheesh  he  expected.  He  was 
probably  the  cousin  or  brother  or  brother  -  in  -  law 
of  one  of  my  room  servitors.  They  all  have  a  line  of 
those  relatives,  and  they  must  live,  I  suppose,  though 
it  is  difficult  to  imagine  why. 

There  was  a  red  glow  in  the  sky  when  our  train 
slipped  out  of  the  Cairo  station  toward  Luxor.  The 
Nile  was  red,  too,  and  against  this  tide  of  evening 
were  those  curious  sail-boats  of  Egypt  that  are  like 

328 


Where  History  Began 


great  pointed-winged  butterflies,  and  the  tall  palms 
of  the  farther  shore.  By-and-by  we  began  to  run 
through  mud  villages  that  rose  from  the  river  among 
the  palms,  wonderfully  picturesque  in  the  gathering 
dusk.  This  was  the  Egypt  of  the  pictures,  the  Egypt 
we  have  always  known.  No  need  to  strain  one's  im- 
agination to  accept  this  reality.  You  are  possessed, 
enveloped  by  it,  and  I  cannot  think  that  I  enjoyed 
it  any  the  less  from  seeing  it  through  the  window 
of  a  comfortable  diner,  with  the  knowledge  that  an 
equally  comfortable,  even  if  tiny,  state-room  was  re- 
served in  the  car  ahead.  The  back  of  a  camel  or 
deck  of  a  dahabiyah  would  be  more  picturesque, 
certainly — more  poetic  —  but  those  things  require 
time,  and  there  are  drawbacks,  too.  Railway  travel 
in  Egypt  is  both  swift  and  satisfactory.  The  accom- 
modations differ  somewhat  from  those  of  America, 
but  not  unpleasantly. 

We  were  a  smafl  party  now.  There  were  fewer 
than  twenty  of  us — all  English-speaking,  except  a 
young  man  who  shared  my  apartment  and  was 
polite  enough  to  pretend  to  understand  my  German. 

It  was  a  little  after  5  a.m.  when  I  heard  him  getting 
up.  I  inquired  if  there  was  ''Etwas  los  V  which  is  the 
ship  idiom  for  asking  if  anything  had  gone  wrong. 
He  said  no,  but  that  the  sun  would  be  upstanding 
directly,  which  brought  me  into  similar  action.  One 
does  not  miss  sunrises  on  the  Nile,  if  one  cares  for 
sunrises  anywhere.  We  hurried  through  our  dressing 
and  were  out  on  the  platform  when  the  train  drew 
up  for  water  at  Nag  Hamadeh — a  station  like  many 
others,  surrounded  by  the  green  luxury  of  the  Nile's 

329 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


fertile  strip,  with  yellow  desert  and  mountains  press- 
ing close  on  either  hand.  It  was  just  before  sunrise. 
The  eastward  sky  was  all  resonant  with  ruddy  tones 
— a  stately  overture  of  its  coming.  Uplifting  palms, 
moveless  in  the  morning  air,  broke  the  horizon  line, 
while  nearer  lay  the  low  village — compact  and  fiat  of 
roof — a  vast,  irregular  hive  built  of  that  old  material 
of  Egypt,  bricks  without  straw.  Below  it  the  Nile  re- 
peated the  palms,  the  village,  the  swelling  symphony 
of  dawn.  Only  here  and  there  was  any  sign  of  life. 
An  Arab  woman  with  a  water- jar  drowsed  toward  the 
river-bank;  a  camp  of  Bedouins  with  their  camels 
and  their  tents  were  beginning  to  stir  and  kindle 
their  morning  fires.  The  railroad  crosses  the  river 
here,  and  just  as  we  were  creeping  out  over  the  slow- 
moving  flood  the  sun  rose,  and  the  orchestra  of  the 
sky  broke  into  a  majestic  crescendo,  as  rare  and  ra- 
diant and  splendid  as  it  was  when  Memnon  answered 
to  its  waking  thrill  and  sang  welcome  to  the  day. 

The  young  man  and  I  had  forgotten  each  other,  I 
think,  for  neither  of  us  had  spoken  for  some  moments. 
Then  we  both  spoke  at  once  —  ''Wunderbarf'  we 
said,  ''WunderschonF''  for  I  have  trained  myself  to 
speak  German  even  when  strongly  moved.  Then 
with  one  impulse  we  looked  at  our  watches.  It  was 
precisely  six,  and  we  remembered  that  it  was  the 
2 2d  of  March — the  equinox. 

We  stayed  out  there  and  saw  the  land  awake — that 
old  land  which  has  awakened  so  many  times  and  in 
so  much  the  same  fashion.  Outside  of  its  cities  and 
its  temples  it  cannot  have  changed  greatly  since  the 
days  of  Rameses.      It  is  still  just  a  green,    fertile 


Where  History  Began 


thread  of  life,  watered  and  tilled  in  the  manner  of 
fifty  centuries  ago.  They  had  to  drag  us  in  to 
breakfast  at  last,  for  we  would  be  at  Luxor  before 
long,  four  hundred  and  fifty  miles  from  Cairo;  that 
is,  at  ancient  Thebes,  where — though  the  place  has 
lingered  for  our  coming  a  good  four  thousand  years — 
''ze  train  he  have  not  time  to  wait." 

We  are  in  Thebes  now,  the  ' '  city  of  a  hundred  gate- 
ways and  twenty  thousand  chariots  of  war."  Homer 
called  it  that,  though  it  was  falling  to  ruin  even  then. 
Homer  was  a  poet,  but  his  statistics  are  believed  to 
be  correct  enough  in  this  instance,  for  Diodorus,  who 
saw  the  ruins  a  little  before  the  Christian  era,  states 
that  there  were  a  hundred  war  stables,  each  capable 
of  holding  two  hundred  horses,  "the  marks  and  signs 
of  which,"  he  says,  "are  visible  to  this  day."  Of  its 
glory  in  general  he  adds:  "There  was  no  city  under 
the  sun  so  adorned  with  so  many  and  stately  monu- 
ments of  gold  and  silver  and  ivory,  and  multitudes 
of  colossi  and  obelisks  cut  out  of  entire  stone."  Still 
further  along  Diodorus  adds,  "There,  they  say,  are 
the  wonderful  sepulchres  of  the  ancient  kings,  which 
for  state  and  grandeur  far  exceed  all  that  posterity 
can  attain  unto  at  this  day." 

Coming  from  a  historian  familiar  with  Athens  and 
Rome  in  the  height  of  their  splendor,  this  statement 
is  worth  considering.  We  have  journeyed  to  Thebes 
to  see  the  ruin  of  the  mighty  temples  which  Diodorus 
saw,  and  the  colossi  and  the  obelisks,  and  to  visit 
the  royal  tombs  of  which  he  heard — now  open  to  the 
light  of  day. 

We  had  glimpses  of  these  things  at  the  very  moment 

331 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


of  our  arrival.  The  Temple  of  Luxor  (so  called)  is 
but  a  step  from  the  hotel,  and,  waiting  on  the  terrace 
for  our  donkeys,  we  looked  across  the  Nile  to  the 
Colossi  of  Memnon,  still  rising  from  the  wide  plain 
where  once  a  thronging  city  stood — still  warming  to 
the  sunrise  that  has  never  failed  in  their  thirty-five 
hundred  years. 

We  were  in  no  hurry  to  leave  that  prospect,  but 
our  donkeys  were  ready  presently,  and  a  gallant  lot 
indeed.  The  Luxor  donkeys  are  the  best  in  Egypt, 
we  are  told,  and  we  believe  it.  They  are  a  mad, 
racing  breed — fat,  unwearied,  and  strenuous — the  pick 
of  their  species.  They  can  gallop  all  day  in  the 
blazing  sun,  and  the  naked  rascal  that  races  behind, 
waving  a  stick  and  shouting,  can  keep  up  with  them 
hour  after  hour  when  an  American  would  drop  dead 
in  five  minutes. 

They  are  appropriately  named,  those  donkeys. 
Mine  was  "Whiskey  Straight,"  and  he  arrived  accord- 
ingly. He  was  a  gray,  wild-headed  animal,  made 
of  spring  steel.  We  headed  the  procession  that  led 
away  for  the  Temple  of  Karnak  in  a  riotous  stampede. 
Laura's  donkey  was  "Whiskey  and  Soda" — a  slightly 
milder  proposition,  but  sufficient  unto  the  day.  I 
have  never  seen  our  ship-dwellers  so  unreserved  in 
their  general  behavior,  so  "let  loose,  "  as  it  were,  from 
anything  that  resembled  convention,  as  when  we 
went  cavorting  through  that  Arab  settlement  of 
"El-Uksur, "  where  had  been  ancient  Thebes.  Beset 
with  a  mad,  enjoying  fear,  our  ladies — some  of  whom 
were  no  longer  young  and  perhaps  had  never  ridden 
before— broke  into  frantic  and  screaming  prophecies 

332 


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Where  History  Began 


of  destruction,  struggling  to  check  their  locomotion, 
their  feet  set  straight  ahead,  skirts,  scarfs,  hats,  hair 
streaming  down  the  wind.  It  was  no  time  for  sce- 
nery— Egyptian  scenery;  we  knew  nothing,  could 
attend  to  nothing,  till  at  the  towering  entrance  of  the 
great  Temple  of  Kamak  we  came  to  a  sudden  and 
confused  halt. 

We  dismounted  there,  shook  ourselves  together, 
and  stared  wonderingly  up  at  those  amazing  walls 
whose  relief  carving  and  fresco  tints  the  dry  air  of 
this  rainless  land  has  so  miraculously  preserved. 
And  then  presently  we  noticed  that  Gaddis,  our 
guide  for  the  Nile,  had  stepped  quietly  out  before  us, 
and  with  that  placid  smile  he  always  wears  had 
lifted  his  hand  to  the  records  of  his  ancestors. 

I  want  to  speak  a  word  just  here  of  Gaddis.  He  is 
pure  Copt,  and  the  name  ''Copt"  is  from  **Gypt" — 
that  is,  "Egypt " — the  Copts  being  the  direct  descend- 
ants of  the  race  that  built  ancient  Thebes.  His  color 
is  a  clear,  rich  brown ;  his  profile  might  be  a  part  of 
these  wall  decorations.  Then  there  are  his  eyes — mere 
dreamy  slits,  behind  which  he  dwells  in  an  age  far 
removed  from  ours,  while  his  lips  wear  always  that 
ineffable  smile  which  belongs  only  to  Egypt,  its 
sculpture  and  its  people,  the  smile  that  regards  with 
gentle  contemplation  —  and  compassion  —  all  trivial 
things.  Young  in  years,  Gaddis  is  as  old  as  these 
monuments  in  reflection  and  mental  heritage — a  part 
with  them  of  a  vanished  day.  And  but  for  his  fez 
and  little  European  coat,  which  with  the  sash  and 
figured  skirt  complete  the  dress  of  the  Egyptian 
guide,  Gaddis  might  truly  have  been  plucked  from 
22  12,2> 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


these  pictured  walls.  I  should  add  that  he  reads  the 
hieroglyphics  and  has  all  languages  on  his  tongue — 
English,  French,  German  —  the  Egyptian  is  bom 
with  these,  I  think ;  his  voice  is  a  drowsy  hum  that  is 
pure  music;  his  temper  is  as  sweet  and  changeless 
as  his  smile. 

So  much  for  Gaddis.  He  stood  now  with  his  lifted 
hand  directed  to  the  panoramic  story  of  the  past; 
then,  in  slow,  measured  voice : 

'*Zis  is  ze  great  temple  of  Kamak — ze  work  of 
many  king.  Here  you  will  see  ze  King  Ram-e-ses  H. 
wiz  ze  crown  an'  symbol  of  Upper  an'  Lower  Egypt, 
making  sacrifice  of  fruit  and  fowl  an'  all  good  sings 
to  ze  gawd  Amm-Ra,  in  ze  presence  of  Horus,  ze 
hawk-headed  sun-gawd,  an'  Anubis  an'  Osiris,  ze 
gawd  of  ze  under- worlid." 

Thus  it  was  our  sight-seeing  in  Upper  Egypt  began. 


XL 

KARNAK   AND    LUXOR 

THE  Temple  of  Kamak  cannot  be  described.  The 
guide-books  attempt  it,  but  the  result  is  only  a 
maze  of  figures  and  detail  for  which  the  mind  cares 
little.  All  the  Greek  temples  on  the  Acropolis  com- 
bined would  make  but  a  miniature  showing  by  the 
side  of  Kamak.  Most  of  the  Egyptian  kings,  begin- 
ning as  far  back  as  3000  B.C.,  had  a  hand  in  its  building, 
and  for  above  two  thousand  years  it  was  in  a  state  of 
construction,  restoration,  or  repair.  The  result  is  an 
amazing  succession  of  halls  and  columns,  monoliths, 
and  mighty  walls — many  of  them  tumbled  and  tum- 
bling now,  but  enough  standing  to  show  what  a  race 
once  flourished  here.  Long  ago  the  road  over  which 
we  came  from  Luxor  was  an  avenue  eighty  feet  wide 
and  a  mile  and  a  half  long,  connecting  the  two  great 
temples.  It  was  faced  on  each  side  with  ram-head- 
ed sphinxes  only  a  few  feet  apart.  Most  of  them 
are  gone  now,  but  the  few  mutilated  specimens  left 
prompt  one's  imagination  of  that  mighty  boulevard. 
The  Kamak  of  that  day,  with  its  various  enclosures, 
is  said  to  have  covered  a  thousand  acres.  The  mind 
does  not  grasp  that,  any  more  than  it  comprehends 
the  ages  of  its  construction,  the  history  it  has  seen. 
It  is  like  trying  to  grasp  the  distance  to  the  stars. 
No  one   may  say  who   began   Kamak,   but   the 

335 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Usertsens  of  the  earliest  Theban  Dynasty  had  a  hand 
in  its  building,  and  after  them  the  other  dynasties 
down  to  the  Ptolemaic  days.  Thothmes  III.  and 
his  aunt,  the  wonderful  Queen  Hatasu — the  ablest 
woman  of  her  time — were  among  its  builders,  and 
these  two  set  up  obelisks,  erected  pylons  and  vast 
columned  halls.  This  was  about  1600  B.C.,  when 
the  glory  of  Egypt  was  at  flood- tide.  Two  centuries 
later  the  mighty  Seti  I.,  whose  mummied  form  sleeps 
to-day  in  the  Museum  at  Cairo,  began  what  is  known 
as  the  great  Hypostile  Hall,  finished  by  his  still 
mightier  son,  Rameses  II.,  whose  mummy  likewise 
reposes  in  Cairo,  father  and  son  together.  Rameses 
built  other  additions  to  Karnak,  and  crowded  most 
of  them  with  pictures  and  statues  of  himself  and  the 
sculptured  glorification  of  his  deeds.  He  was,  in 
fact,  not  only  the  greatest  king,  but  the  greatest 
egotist  the  world  has  ever  known,  and  in  the  end 
beHeved  himself  a  god.  It  is  said  that  he  built  more 
than  seventy  temples  altogether,  chiefly  to  hold  his 
statues,  and  that  he  put  his  name  on  a  number  that 
had  been  built  by  his  predecessors.  It  has  been 
hinted  that  to  his  title  of  ''The  Great"  the  word 
''Advertiser"  should  have  been  added,  and  the  fact 
that  he  is  now  on  exhibition  in  a  glass  case  must  be 
a  crowning  gratification  to  him,  if  he  knows  it.  It 
should  be  mentioned  that  Rameses  II.  is  thought  to  be 
one  of  the  oppressors  of  the  Israelites,  which  may 
tend  to  arrange  his  period  and  personality  in  the 
Biblical  mind. 

I  am  wandering  away  from  the  subject  in  hand.     I 
want  to  talk  about  Karnak,  and  I  find  myself  talking 


Karnak  and  Luxor 


of  kings.  But,  then,  one  cannot  talk  about  Karnak — 
not  intelligently.  One  must  see  Karnak,  and  he  will 
believe  himself  dreaming  all  the  time,  and  he  will 
come  away  silent.  The  Romans  came  to  Karnak 
when  the  Egyptians  had  finished  with  their  building, 
and  by-and-by  the  early  Christians,  who  could  always 
be  depended  upon  to  pull  down  and  mutilate  and 
destroy  anything  that  was  particularly  magnificent. 
Our  old  friend,  the  good  Queen  Helena,  arrived,  and 
the  temples  of  Egypt  crumbled  before  the  blight  of 
her  fanaticism.  But  I  must  change  cars  again.  I 
get  a  little  rabid  when  I  take  up  Queen  Helena  and 
her  tribe. 

We  followed  Gaddis  from  arch  to  pylon,  from 
enclosure  to  sanctuary — we  passed  down  colonnades 
that  one  must  see  to  believe.  There  are  two  kinds 
of  columns  in  Egypt,  by- the- way,  the  Lotus  and  the 
Papyrus — the  former  with  a  capital  that  opens  out 
like  a  flaring  bowl,  the  cup  of  the  lotus-flower;  the 
other  with  a  capital  that  is  more  like  an  opening  bud. 
The  lotus  symbolizes  the  Delta  country.  Lower 
Egypt;  the  papyrus  stands  for  Upper  Egypt,  the 
country  of  the  Nile,  where  we  now  are.  Both  are 
used  in  these  temples,  and  here  in  Karnak  there  is  a 
hall  of  Lotus  columns — one  hundred  and  thirty-four 
in  number — twelve  of  them  sixty  feet  high  and  twelve 
feet  through! 

That  is  the  great  Hypostile  Hall  of  Seti  L,  and  I 
wish  the  English  language  were  big  enough,  and  I  on 
sufficiently  good  terms  with  it  to  convey  the  over- 
whelming impression  of  that  place.  Try  to  conceive 
an  architectural  forest  of  the  size  of  a  city  block, 

337 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


planted  with  sculptured  and  painted  columns  and 
filled  with  sunlight — the  columns  toweiing  till  they 
seem  to  touch  the  sky,  and  of  such  thickness  that  six 
men  with  extended  arms,  finger-tip  to  finger-tip,  can 
barely  span  them  round.  The  twelve  mightier 
columns  form  a  central  avenue  that  simply  dwarfs 
into  insignificance  any  living  thing  that  enters  it. 
You  suddenly  become  an  insect  when  you  stand 
between  those  columns  and  look  up,  and  you  have 
the  feeling  that  you  are  likely  to  be  stepped  on.  The 
rest  of  that  colossal  assembly  stretch  away  on  either 
side  and  are  only  a  degree  smaller.  All  are  painted 
with  the  four  colors  of  the  Nile — mellow  tones  of 
blue,  red,  green  and  yellow,  signifying  high  and  low 
Nile,  green  fields  and  harvest — imperishable  pigments 
as  fresh  and  luminous  under  this  sunlit  sky  as  when 
they  were  laid  there  by  artists  who  finished  and  put 
their  brushes  away  more  than  three  thousand  years 
ago.  How  poor  are  mere  words  in  the  presence  of 
this  mighty  reality  which  has  outlived  so  many 
languages — will  outlive  all  the  puny  languages  that 
try  to  convey  it  now! 

Looking  down  the  great  central  avenue  of  Seti's 
hall,  we  beheld  at  the  end — standing  as  true  to-day 
as  when  she  placed  it  there — the  graceful  granite 
obelisk  of  Queen  Hatasu. 

**Set  up  in  honor  of  father  Amen,"  she  relates  in 
her  inscription  on  the  base.  She  adds  that  she 
covered  the  tip  with  copper  that  it  might  be  seen  at 
a  great  distance,  and*  tells  how  the  monolith  and  its 
mate  (now  lying  broken  near  it)  were  hewn  from  the 
Assuan  quarries  and  brought  down  the  Nile  to  Thebes. 

338 


Karnak  and  Luxor 


I  may  say  here  that  we  did  not  read  these  inscriptions 
ourselves.  We  could  do  it,  of  course,  if  we  had  time, 
but  Gaddis,  who  is  at  least  five  thousand  years  old, 
inside,  is  better  at  it  than  we  could  be  in  a  brief 
period  like  that,  so  we  depend  on  him  a  good  deal. 
Gaddis  can  read  anything.  A  bird  without  a  head, 
followed  by  a  pair  of  legs  walking,  a  row  of  saw- 
teeth, a  picked  chicken,  a  gum-drop  and  a  comb,  all 
done  in  careful  outline,  mean  "Homage  to  the  Horus 
of  the  two  horizons  "  to  Gaddis,  though  I  have  been 
unable  as  yet  to  see  why. 

We  went  into  the  Hall,  or  Temple,  of  Khonsu,  the 
moon-god,  and  here  was  a  breath-taking  collection  of 
papyrus  columns,  short,  thick,  built  to  stand  through 
the  ages  on  the  uncertain  foundation  of  this  alluvial 
plain.  We  passed  into  a  sanctuary  where  the  priests 
of  Amen  prepared  the  sacrifice,  and  Gaddis  read  the 
story  on  the  walls,  and  pointed  out  for  the  twentieth 
time,  perhaps,  Horus,  the  hawk-headed  god,  and  Hapi, 
his  son,  who  has  a  dog  head  and  can  hardly  be  called 
handsome;  also  Anubis,  the  jackal-headed  god  of  the 
Under  World.  We  came  to  a  temple  with  a  wall 
upon  which  Seti  recorded  his  victories  over  the 
forces  of  Syria,  and  pictured  himself  in  the  act  of 
destroying  an  army  single  handed  by  gathering  their 
long  hair  into  a  single  twist  preparatory  to  smiting 
off  this  combined  multitude  of  heads  at  a  blow.  We 
follow  Gaddis  through  long  tumbling  avenues  and 
corridors  of  decorated  walls;  we  climbed  over  fallen 
columns  that  prostrate  were  twice  as  high  as  our 
heads;  we  studied  the  records  which  those  old  kings, 
in  ages  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world  was  myth  and 

339 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


fable  set  up  to  preserve  the  story  of  their  deeds. 
And  remember,  all  these  columns  and  walls  were 
not  only  completely  covered  with  figures  carved  in 
relief,  but  tinted  in  those  unfading  colors,  subdued, 
harmonious,  and  more  beautiful  than  I  can  tell. 

How  little  and  how  feebly  I  seem  to  be  writing 
about  this  stupendous  ruin,  yet  I  must  conclude 
presently  for  lack  of  room.  We  went  into  the 
Ramesseum,  a  temple  literally  lined  with  heroic 
statues  of  Rameses,  where  I  made  a  picture  of  the 
fly-brush  brigade,  as  we  call  ourselves  now,  because  in 
Upper  Egypt  a  fly-brush  is  absolutely  necessary  not 
alone  to  comfort,  but  to  very  existence.  The  fly 
here  is  not  the  ordinary  house  variety,  fairly  coy  and 
flirtatious  if  one  has  a  newspaper  or  other  impromptu 
weapon,  retiring  now  and  again  to  a  safe  place  for 
contemplation ;  no,  the  Egyptian  fly  is  different.  He 
never  retires  and  he  is  not  in  the  least  coy.  He  makes 
for  you  in  a  cloud,  and  it  is  only  by  continuous  industry 
that  you  can  beat  him  off  at  all.  Furthermore,  he 
begins  business  the  instant  he  touches,  and  he  has 
continuously  the  gift  which  our  fly  sometimes  has  on 
a  sultry,  muggy  day — the  art  of  sticking  with  his  feet, 
which  drives  you  frantic.  So  you  buy  a  fly -brush  the 
instant  you  land  in  Upper  Egypt,  and  you  keep  it 
going  constantly  from  dawn  to  dark.  The  flies  retire 
then,  for  needed  rest. 

We  passed  through  another  avenue  of  ram-headed 
sphinxes  (some  of  the  heads  were  gone)  which 
Rameses  built,  and  stood  outside  of  the  great  temple 
of  Amen,  once  called  the  ''Throne  of  the  World."  Its 
magnificent  pylons,  or  entrance  walls,  are  one  hundred 

340 


Karnak  and  Luxor 


and  fifty  feet  high  and  three  hundred  broad.  We 
ascended  one  of  these  for  a  general  view  of  the  vast 
field  of  ruin. 

Piled  and  tumbled  and  flung  about  lay  the  mighty 
efforts  of  a  mighty  race.  At  one  place  excavating 
was  still  going  on,  and  a  regiment  of  little  boys  were 
running  back  and  forth  with  baskets  of  dirt  on  their 
heads,  singing  and  sweating  in  the  blazing  sun, 
earning  as  much  as  two  piastres  (ten  cents)  a  day. 
Men  were  working,  too ;  they  receive  quite  fancy  sums 
— twenty  cents  a  day,  some  of  them. 

Now  that  we  were  outside  of  the  shaded  temple 
and  sanctuary  enclosures  our  party  was  not  very 
game.  It  was  our  first  day  in  Upper  Egypt,  and  the 
flies  and  the  sun  made  a  pretty  deadly  combination. 
We  began  to  complain,  and  to  long  for  the  cool 
corridors  and  fizzy  drinks  and  protecting  screens  of 
the  hotel.  We  might  have  played  golf  or  tennis  in 
that  sun,  but  seeing  ruins  was  different,  and  we  began 
to  pray  for  the  donkeys  again.  So  Gaddis  led  us 
around  by  the  Sacred  Lake,  where  once  the  splendid 
ceremonials  were  performed — it  is  only  a  shallow  pool 
now — and  then  once  more  we  were  on  the  donkeys, 
strung  out  in  a  crazy,  shrieking  stampede  for  the 
hotel.  Gaddis  rode  near  me.  His  donkey  was  a 
racer,  too,  but  Gaddis  did  not  laugh  or  cry  out,  or 
anything  of  the  sort.  He  only  wore  that  gentle 
serene  smile,  the  smile  of  Egypt,  observing  trivial 
things. 

In  the  afternoon  we  visited  the  Temple  of  Luxor, 
that  beautiful  structure  which  Amenophis  III.  built 

341 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


on  the  banks  of  the  Nile.  Luxor  is  Karnak  on  a 
smaller  scale,  though  big  enough  in  all  conscience, 
and  it  is  not  all  excavated  yet.  Debris  had  covered 
this  temple  to  the  very  top,  and  it  is  not  so  long  ago 
that  a  village  was  built  on  a  level  with  the  capitals 
of  these  columns.  When  M.  Maspero,  in  1883,  began 
his  work  of  excavation,  the  natives  naturally  pro- 
tested against  the  uncovering  of  the  ''heathen"  ruins 
at  the  expense  of  their  mud  huts.  The  work  went  on, 
however,  and  to-day  a  large  part  of  the  magnificent 
architecture  stands  revealed,  once  more  reflecting  its 
columns  in  the  Nile. 

There  is  still  a  quantity  of  debris  to  be  removed. 
One  end  of  the  Temple  is  full  of  it,  and  may  remain  so 
a  good  while.  On  top  of  this  mass,  some  ^yq  hundred 
years  ago,  a  Mohammedan  mosque  was  built  by  the 
descendants  of  a  saint  named  Abu  Haggag,  and 
sufficient  of  his  family  are  left  to  this  day  to  hold  that 
mosque  intact  against  all  would-be  excavators.  How- 
ever, the  mosque  itself  begins  to  look  pretty  old.  If 
the  diggers  keep  encroaching,  it  may  slide  off  into 
the  Temple  some  day,  saints  and  all. 

Luxor,  as  a  whole,  is  better  preserved  than  Karnak. 
I  suppose  the  heaped-up  debris  kept  the  columns  in 
position  during  the  last  ten  or  a  dozen  centuries.  I 
wish  it  had  been  there  when  the  early  Christian  came 
along.  Cambyses  of  Persia,  who  burned  everything 
that  would  burn  in  Egypt,  about  527  e.g.,  blackened 
the  walls  of  this  temple  with  fire,  the  marks  of  which 
show  to  this  day,  but  he  was  nothing  to  the  followers 
of  Queen  Helena.  Even  the  guide-book,  which  is 
likely  to  be  conservative  in  any  comment  that  may 

342 


Karnak  and  Luxor 


touch  upon  the  faith  of  its  readers,  says  concerning 
the  followers  of  Helena:  "Not  content  with  turning 
certain  sections  of  it  into  churches,  the  more  fanatical 
among  them  smashed  statues,  and  disfigured  bas- 
reliefs  and  wrecked  shrines  with  characteristic  savage 
and  ignorant  zeal."  * 

There  ought  to  be  a  painting  or  a  marble  group 
somewhere  entitled  ''Early  Christian  at  Work" — ^a 
lean-faced,  stringy-haired  maniac  with  sledge,  mur- 
dering a  symbolized  figure  of  Defenceless  Art  in  the 
Far  East.  The  early  Christian  is  said  to  have  de- 
stroyed forty-five  thousand  statues  in  Thebes  in  one 
day. 

Still,  those  statues  may  not  matter  so  much — they 
were  probably  all  of  Rameses  the  Great,  and  there  are 
enough  of  him  left.  The  Luxor  Temple  had  them 
in  all  sizes,  and  of  all  materials,  from  granite  to 
alabaster.  Also  some  of  **Mrs.  Rameses,"  as  Gaddis 
called  her — ^no  particular  Mrs.  Rameses — there  having 
been  several  of  her;  just  a  sort  of  generic  type  of 
connubial  happiness,  I  suppose.  Mrs.  Rameses,  by 
the  way,  does  not  cut  much  figure  in  the  statuary. 
She  usually  comes  only  about  to  the  knee  of  the  King, 
though  she  is  life-size  even  then,  for  his  own  statues 
are  colossal,  ranging  anywhere  from  fifteen  to  fifty 
feet  high.  That  was  to  represent  their  difference  in 
importance,  of  course,  an  idea  which  the  women 
members  of  our  party  seemed  to  disapprove.^ 

One  of  the  statues  of  Rameses  was  found  in  a 

^Cooh's  Egypt,  page  562. 

2  At  Abou  Simbel  there  are  sitting  statues  of  Rameses  the 
Great  which,  if  standing  erect,  would  be  eighty-three  feet  tall. 

343 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


curious  manner.  A  guide  only  a  little  while  ago 
was  lecturing  to  a  party  of  tourists,  while  a  young 
lady  not  far  away  was  sketching  a  corner  of  the  ruin. 
The  sketcher  stopped  to  listen  to  the  guide's  talk, 
and  when  he  had  finished  said  to  the  boy  who  was 
keeping  the  flies  from  her : 

''Go  up  on  that  heap  of  rubbish  and  see  what  that 
stone  is." 

It  was  the  rubbish  that  slopes  down  from  the  old 
mosque.  The  boy  climbed  up,  pulled  away  the  trash, 
and  uncovered  the  head  of  one  of  the  most  perfect 
Rameseses  yet  discovered. 

Originally  the  Temple  of  Luxor  was  five  hundred 
feet  long,  one  hundred  and  eighty  feet  wide,  and,  as 
before  mentioned,  was  connected  with  Kamak  by  a 
double  row  of  ram-headed  sphinxes.  Amenophis  III. 
built  it  about  1500  B.C.,  and  it  was  regarded  as  the 
most  beautiful  of  Egyptian  temples.  Then  came  his 
son,  Amenophis  IV.,  who,  being  a  sun- worshipper 
after  the  manner  of  his  Mesopotamian  mother,  cut 
away  the  name  of  the  Egyptian  god  Amen  and  set  up 
a  new  worship  here.  It  was  a  brief  innovation.  The 
priests  made  it  too  hot  for  the  Heretic  King.  He  gave 
up  the  struggle  after  a  time,  went  into  the  desert 
farther  down  the  Nile,  and  built  there  a  city  and 
temples  of  his  own.  Then  this  temple  was  sacred  to 
the  old  religion  again.  It  remained  so  until  Alexander 
came,  cut  his  name  here  and  there,  and  probably 
worshipped  his  own  assortment  of  gods.  Later  came 
the  Roman  and  the  early  Christian;  still  later  the 
Mohammedan  established  ceremonies  and  reconstruct- 
ed shrines. 

344 


Karnak  and  Luxor 


We  had  all  the  old  sacrifices  and  processions  and 
gods  and  victories  over  again  in  Luxor,  including  the 
picture  story  of  the  birth  of  Amenophis  III.,  which 
depicts  an  immaculate  conception;  an  annunciation; 
a  visitation  of  wise  men  with  gifts,  executed  about 
1500  B.C. 

After  which  we  returned  to  the  hotel ;  but  when  the 
sun  was  low  in  the  west  beyond  the  Nile  and  the  air 
was  getting  balmy,  I  slipped  back  and  sat  in  the  old 
Temple  in  the  quiet,  and  thought  of  a  number  of 
things.  Then  as  the  sun  slipped  below  the  verge,  a 
figure  stepped  out  on  the  minaret  just  over  my 
head  and  began  that  weird  thrilling  chant  which 
once  heard  will  remain  forever  unforgotten,  the  cry 
of  the  East— ''Allah  il  Allah,"  the  Muezzin's  call  to 
prayer. 

So  it  is  still  a  place  of  worship.  The  voice  of  faith 
has  reached  down  thirty-four  centuries,  and  whatever 
the  form,  or  the  prophet,  or  the  priest,  it  is  all  em- 
bodied there  at  evening  and  at  morning  in  the  cry, 
"There  is  no  God  but  God." 


XLI 

THE    STILL   VALLEY    OF   THE    KINGS 

IT  was  early  next  morning  when  we  crossed  the  Nile 
to  the  rhythm  of  a  weird  chorus  which  the  boatmen 
sang  to  the  beat  of  the  oars.  It  is  probably  older 
than  these  temples,  and  the  boatmen  themselves  do 
not  know  the  meaning  of  the  words,  Gaddis  said. 
One  intones  and  the  others  answer,  and  it  is  in  minor 
keys  with  a  dying  fall  at  the  end,  except  now  and 
then  when  a  curious  lifting  note  drops  in,  like  a  flash 
of  light  on  the  oars.  Bound  for  the  Valley  of  the 
Kings,  the  House  of  Hatasu,  and  the  Colossi  of  Mem- 
non,  it  seemed  a  fitting  overture. 

The  donkeys  were  waiting  on  the  other  bank — the 
same  we  had  used  yesterday,  fat  and  fresh  as  ever, 
and  the  same  boys  were  there  calling  and  gesticulating 
to  their  special  charges  of  the  day  before.  There  are 
always  a  few  more  donkey-boys  than  is  necessary, 
it  seems,  all  of  them  wildly  eager  for  the  privilege 
of  racing  all  day  in  the  perishing  sun,  urging  the 
donkeys  and  yelling  for  baksheesh  at  every  jump — not 
that  they  expect  to  get  it  until  the  end  of  the  day, 
but  as  a  traditional  part  of  the  performance.  The 
donkey-boy  gets  nothing,  we  are  told,  but  what  one 
is  pleased  to  give  him — the  donkey  hire  going  to  the 
Sheik,  who  owns  the  donkeys  and  lets  the  boys  get 
what  they  can.     I  would  write  a  good  deal  about 

346 


The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings 


those  half -naked,  half -savage,  tireless  donkey -boys 
if  permitted.  They  and  their  brothers,  and  their 
cousins  even  to  the  fourth  remove,  who  come  in  like 
a  charging  army  in  the  wild  baksheesh  skirmish  at 
the  end,  interest  me. 

Mounted,  we  led  away  in  the  usual  stampede  along 
canals  and  by  lush  green  fields,  across  the  fertile 
strip  that  borders  the  Nile.  The  green  is  rather  wide 
here — as  much  as  a  mile,  I  should  think,  and  it  was 
pleasant  going  through  the  still  morning  if  one  kept 
well  forward  in  the  procession — ^in  front  of  the  dust 
that  rose  mightily  behind  us.  Every  little  way 
where  we  slackened  speed,  detachments  of  sellers 
would  charge  from  the  roadside  with  trinkets,  imita- 
tion scarabs,  and  images,  but  more  notably  with 
fragments  (and  these  were  genuine  enough)  of  what 
long  ago — as  much  as  three  or  four  thousand  years, 
perhaps — had  been  human  beings  like  ourselves. 
Remnants  of  mummies  they  were,  quarried  out  of 
the  barren  hills  where  lie  not  only  the  kings  but  the 
millions  who  in  the  glory  of  Egypt  lived  and  died  in 
Thebes.  The  hills  are  full  of  them,  Gaddis  said,  and 
unearthing  them  has  become  an  industry. 

It  was  rather  grewsome  at  first  to  be  offered  such 
things — to  have  a  head,  or  a  hand,  or  a  foot  thrust  up 
under  your  eyes,  and  with  it  an  outstretched  palm 
for  payment.  The  prices  demanded  were  not  very 
high,  and  the  owners,  the  present  owners,  would  take 
less — a  good  deal  less  than  the  first  quotation.  A 
physician  in  our  party  bought  a  head — hard  and 
black  as  old  mahogany,  with  some  bits  of  gold-leaf 
still  sticking  to  it — for  five  francs,  and  I  was  offered 

347 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


a  baby's  hand  (it  had  been  soft  and  dimpled  once — 
it  was  dark  and  withered  now)  for  a  shilling. 

We  crossed  the  line  which  "divides  the  desert 
from  the  sown" — a  sharp,  perfectly  distinguishable 
line  in  Egypt — and  were  in  the  sand,  the  sun  getting 
high  and  blazing  down,  fairly  drenching  us  with  its 
flame.  We  thought  it  would  be  better  when  we 
entered  the  hills,  but  that  was  a  mistake.  It  was 
worse,  for  there  was  not  a  particle  of  growing  shade, 
not  a  blade  of  any  green  thing,  and  there  seemed  no 
breath  of  life  in  that  stirless  air. 

Remember  it  never  rains  here;  these  hills  have 
never  known  water  since  the  Flood,  but  have  been 
baking  in  this  vast  kiln  for  a  million  years.  You 
will  realize  that  it  must  be  hot,  then,  but  you  will 
never  know  how  hot  until  you  go  there.  Here  and 
there  a  rock  leaned  over  a  little  and  made  a  skimpy 
blue  shadow,  which  we  sidled  into  as  we  passed  for  a 
blessed  instant  of  relief.  We  understood  now  the 
fuller  meaning  of  that  Bible  phrase,  '*As  the  shadow 
of  a  great  rock  in  a  weary  land."  This  was  a  weary 
land  with  shadows  far  between.  Now  and  then  those 
astonishing  donkeys  broke  into  a  gallop  and  stirred  up 
a  little  scorching  wind,  the  unflagging  boys  capering 
and  shouting  behind. 

It  seemed  an  endless  way,  up  into  these  calcined 
hills  to  the  Burial-place  of  Kings,  but  by-and-by  there 
were  traces  of  ruins  and  excavation,  and  we  heard 
the  throb  of  a  dynamo  on  the  quivering  air.  We 
dismounted  then,  and  Gaddis  led  us  up  a  burning 
little  steep  to  what  at  first  seemed  a  great  tunnel  into 
the  mountain-side.     How  deep  and  cool  and  inviting 

348 


The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings 


it  looked  up  there ;  we  would  go  in,  certainly.  Was 
it  really  a  tomb  ?  No  wonder  those  old  kings  looked 
forward  to  such  a  place. 

It  was  merely  an  entrance  to  a  tomb — a  tunnel, 
truly,  and  of  such  size  that  I  believe  two  railway 
trains  could  enter  it  side  by  side  and  two  more  on 
top  of  them !  I  think  most  of  us  had  the  idea — I  know 
I  did — that  we  would  go  down  ladders  into  these 
tombs,  and  that  they  would  be  earthy,  cheerless 
places,  more  interesting  than  attractive. 

They  are  the  most  beautiful  places  I  ever  saw. 
The  entrances — vast,  as  I  have  stated — go  directly  in 
from  the  hillside ;  the  rock  floors  are  dry  and  clean, 
while  the  side-walls  and  the  ceilings  are  simply  a  mass 
of  such  carving  and  color  as  the  world  nowhere  else 
contains.  An  electric  dynamo  set  up  in  a  tomb  that 
was  never  finished  (that  of  Rameses  XII.,  I  believe) 
supplies  illumination  for  these  homes  of  the  kingly 
dead,  and  as  you  follow  deeper  and  deeper  into  the 
heart  of  the  mountain  your  wonder  grows  at  the 
inconceivable  artistic  effort  and  constructive  labor 
that  have  been  expended  on  those  walls.  Deeper,  and 
still  deeper,  along  a  gradual  decline  that  seems  a 
veritable  passage  to  the  underworld.  Here  and  there, 
at  the  side,  are  antechambers  or  avenues  that  lead 
away — we  wonder  whither. 

Now  and  again  Gaddis  paused  to  explain  the 
marvellous  story  of  the  walls — the  progress  of  the 
King  to  the  underworld — his  reception  there,  his 
triumphs,  his  life  in  general  in  that  long  valley  of 
spirits  which  ran  parallel  with  Egypt  and  was  neither 
above  nor  below  the  level  of  the  earth.  It  was  this 
23  349 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


form  and  idea  of  the  underworld  that  the  shape  of 
these  tombs  was  intended  to  express,  while  their 
walls  illustrate  the  happy  future  life  of  the  King. 
Chapters  from  the  ''Book  of  the  Underworld"  (a  sort 
of  descriptive  geography  of  the  country)  and  from 
the  "Book  of  the  Dead"  (a  manual  of  general  in- 
struction as  to  customs  and  deportment  in  the  new 
life)  cover  vast  spaces.  Here  and  there  a  design 
was  not  entirely  worked  out,  but  the  sketch  was 
traced  in  outline,  which  would  indicate  that  perhaps 
the  King  died  before  his  tomb  (always  a  life-work) 
was  complete. 

Now,  realize :  This  gorgeous  passage  was  nearly  five 
hundred  feet  long,  cut  into  the  living  rock,  and 
opened  into  a  vast  pillared  and  vaulted  chamber  ful- 
ly sixty  feet  long  by  forty  wide  and  thirty  high — the 
whole  covered  with  splendid  decorations  that  the  dry 
air  and  protection  have  preserved  as  fresh  and  beauti- 
ful as  the  day  they  were  finished  so  many  centuries  ago. 
This  was  the  royal  chamber,  empty  now,  where  in 
silent  state  King  Seti  I.  once  lay.  We  are  a  frivolous 
crowd,  but  we  were  awed  into  low-voiced  wonder 
at  the  magnitude  of  this  work,  the  mightiness  of 
a  people  who  could  provide  so  overwhelmingly  for 
their  dead. 

I  do  not  remember  how  many  such  tombs  we 
visited,  but  they  were  a  good  many,  including  those 
of  Rameses  I.  and  II.,  the  father  and  the  mighty  son 
of  Seti  L,  all  three  of  whom  now  sleep  in  the  Cairo 
Museum.  Also  the  tomb  of  Rameses  IX.,  one  of  the 
finest  of  the  lot. 

In  some  of  the  tombs  the  sarcophagi  were  still  in 

350 


The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings 


place,  but  all  are  empty  of  occupants  except  one. 
This  was  the  splendid  tomb  of  Amenophis  II.,  of  the 
Eighteenth  Dynasty,  who  lived  in  the  glory  of  Egypt, 
1600  B.C.,  a  warrior  who  slew  seven  Syrian  chiefs  with 
his  own  hand.  Gaddis  had  not  told  us  what  to 
expect  in  that  tomb,  and  when  we  had  followed 
through  the  long  declining  way  to  the  royal  chamber 
and  beheld  there,  not  an  empty  sarcophagus  but  a 
king  asleep,  we  were  struck  to  silence  with  that  three 
thousand  five  hundred  years  of  visible  rest. 

The  top  of  the  sarcophagus  is  removed,  and  is 
replaced  by  heavy  plate  glass.  Just  over  the  sleeper's 
face  there  is  a  tiny  electric  globe,  and  I  believe  one 
could  never  tire  of  standing  there  and  looking  at 
that  quiet  visage,  darkened  by  age,  but  beautiful  in 
its  dignity ;  unmoved,  undisturbed  by  the  storm  and 
stress  of  the  fretful  years. 

How  long  he  has  been  asleep!  The  Israelites  were 
still  in  bondage  when  he  fell  into  that  quiet  doze, 
and  for  their  exodus,  a  century  or  two  later,  he  did 
not  care.  Hector  and  Achilles  and  Paris  and  the 
rest  had  not  battled  on  the  Plains  of  Troy ;  the  gods 
still  assembled  on  Mt.  Olympus ;  Rome  was  not  yet 
dreamed.  He  had  been  asleep  nigh  a  thousand  years 
when  Romulus  quit  nursing  the  she-wolf  to  build 
the  walls  of  a  city  which  would  one  day  rule  the 
world.  The  rise,  the  conquest,  the  decline  of  that 
vast  empire  he  never  knew.  When  her  armies  swept 
the  nations  of  the  East  and  landed  upon  his  own 
shores  he  did  not  stir  in  his  sleep.  The  glory  of 
Egypt  ebbed  away,  but  he  did  not  care.  Old  religions 
perished;  new  gods  and  new  prophets  replaced  the 

351 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


gods  and  prophets  he  had  known — it  mattered  not  to 
him,  here  in  this  quiet  underworld.  Through  every 
change  he  lay  here  in  peace,  just  as  he  lies  to-day, 
so  still,  so  fine  in  his  kingly  majesty — upon  his  face 
that  soft  electric  glow  which  seems  in  no  wise  out 
of  place,  because  it  has  come  as  all  things  come  at 
last  to  him  who  waits. 

In  a  sort  of  anteroom  near  the  royal  chamber  lie 
the  mummies  of  three  adherents  of  the  King,  each 
with  a  large  hole  in  the  skull  and  a  large  gash  in  the 
breast — royal  slaves,  no  doubt,  sent  to  bear  their 
liege  company.  I  remember  one  of  them  as  having 
very  long  thick  curly  hair — a  handsome  fellow,  I 
suppose ;  a  favorite  who  could  not,  or  would  not,  be 
left  behind. 

A  number  of  other  royal  mummies  were  found  in 
the  Tomb  of  Amenophis  II.,  so  that  at  some  period 
of  upheaval  it  must  have  been  used  as  a  hiding-place 
for  the  regal  dead,  as  was  a  cave  across  the  mountains 
at  Der  al-Bahari.  Perhaps  those  who  secreted  them 
here  thought  that  a  king  who  in  life  had  slain  seven 
chiefs  with  his  own  hand  would  make  a  potent 
guard.  They  were  not  mistaken.  Through  all  the 
centuries  the  guests  of  that  still  house  lay  undis- 
turbed. 

We  paused,  though  briefly — for  it  was  fairly  roast- 
ing outside— at  the  excavations  of  our  countryman, 
Mr.  Theodore  M.  Davis,  who  has  brought  to  light  so 
many  priceless  relics  in  this  place;  after  which  we 
bought  an  entire  stock  of  oranges  from  an  Arab  who 
suddenly  appeared  from  nowhere,  sucked  them  raven- 
ously, and  set  out,  leading  our  donkeys  up  a  broiling 

352 


The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings 


precipitous  path  over  the  mountains,  for  the  house  of 
Queen  Hatasu,  which  lies  at  the  base  of  the  cliffs  on 
the  other  side. 

It  was  not  very  far,  I  suppose,  but  it  was  strenuous 
and  seemed  miles.  We  were  rewarded,  however, 
when  we  reached  the  plateau  of  the  mountain  top. 
From  the  brink  of  the  great  cliff  we  could  look  out 
over  the  whole  plain  of  Thebes,  its  villages  and  its 
ruins,  its  green  cultivation  and  its  blazing  sands. 
Once  it  was  a  vast  city — *  *  the  city  of  a  hundred  gates 
and  twenty  thousand  chariots  of  war."  Through  its 
centre  flowed  the  Nile,  a  very  fountain  of  life,  its  one 
outlet  to  the  world.  To  the  east  and  the  west  lay 
Nature's  surest  fortifications,  the  dead  hills  and  the 
encompassing  sands.  It  is  estimated  that  the  city 
of  Paris  could  stand  on  this  level  sweep  and  that 
Thebes  overspread  it  all.  As  at  Ephesus,  we 
tried  to  re-create  that  vanished  city,  but  we  did 
not  try  long,  for  the  mid -day  sun  was  too  frying 
hot. 

So  we  descended  to  the  rest-house  of  Der  al-Bahari, 
where  we  created  a  famine  in  everything  resembling 
refreshments,  liquid  or  otherwise,  in  that  wayside 
shelter.  Then  out  on  the  piazza  we  swung  our  fly- 
brushes,  beat  off  the  sellers  of  things,  and  tried  to 
assimilate  our  half-baked  knowledge. 

We  were  in  a  mixed  state  of  temples  and  tombs  and 
dynasties  and  localities — of  sacrificial  processions, 
and  gods  of  the  "Underworld."  The  sun  had  got 
into  our  heads,  too,  and  some  of  the  refreshments  had 
been  of  strange  color  and  curious  brands.  It  is  no 
wonder  that  we  drifted  into  deliriums  of  verse.     I 

353 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


have  forgotten  who  had  the  first  seizure,  but  from 
internal  evidence  it  was  probably  Fosdick — Fosdick 
of  Ohio.     This  is  it: 

Queen  Hatasu,  of  Timbuctoo, 

She  hved  a  busy  Hfe; 
She  fell  in  love  with  King  Khufu, 

And  she  became  his  wife. 

She  put  him  in  a  pyramid — 

He  put  her  in  another, 
And  now  four  thousand  years  have  gone 

You  can't  tell  one  from  tother. 

I  do  remember  how  we  tried  to  reason  with  the 
author;  how  we  explained  to  him  carefully  that 
Hatasu,  who  was  also  called  Hatshepset  and  certain 
other  names,  did  not  hail  from  Timbuctoo ;  also  that 
King  Khufu,  alias  Cheops,  had  been  in  his  pyramid 
at  least  two  thousand  years,  with  fourteen  dynasties 
on  top  of  him,  when  that  lady  of  the  Nile  was  bom. 
It  was  no  use ;  he  turned  a  glazed  eye  on  us  and  said 
all  periods  looked  alike  to  him,  that  art  was  long  and 
life  fleeting,  that  a  trifle  of  two  thousand  years  was 
as  a  few  grains  on  the  Egyptian  sands  of  time.  We 
saw,  then,  he  was  hopeless,  but  later  he  improved  and 
seemed  sorry.  It  did  not  matter;  another  member 
of  the  party  had  been  taken  with  the  poetic  madness, 
and  we  gave  room  for  his  attack.  It  was  of  milder 
form,  and  mercifully  short: 

King  Rameses,  he  strove  to  please, 

And  put  his  foes  to  flight; 
To  celebrate  his  victories 

He  toiled  both  day  and  night. 

354 


The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings 


He  filled  full  threescore   temples  with 

His  statues  vast  and  grim, 
And  some  of  Mrs.    Rameses 

Who  wa'n't  knee-high  to  him. 

I  don't  know  why  a  malady  of  this  sort  should  fall 
upon  our  party.  Such  things  never  happened  on  the 
ship,  but  then  Egypt  is  different,  as  I  have  said. 
There  was  one  more  outbreak  before  we  got  the  germ 
destroyed : 

Behold  the  halls  of  Seti  I., 

And  also  Seti  II. ; 
Likewise  of  old  Amenhetep 

And    haughty    Hatasu. 

They  lived  in  state,  their  days  were  great 

And  glided  gayly  by; 
Sometimes  they  used  to  rail  at  fate, 

The  same  as  you  and  I. 

Oh,  Seti  I.,  your  race  is  run, 

And  also  Seti  II., 
And  lizards  sleep  where  ages  creep 

In  the  house  of  Hatasu. 

It  was  time  to  check  the  tendency;  it  was  getting 
serious. 

We  went  up  to  the  ''House  of  Hatasu" — all  that 
is  left  of  it — a  beautiful  fragment  of  what  was  built 
by  the  great  Queen  as  her  Holy  of  Holies.  It  is 
unlike  other  temples  we  have  seen,  with  its  square 
columns;  its  beautiful  open  portico;  its  fine  ceiling, 
still  perfect  in  workmanship  and  coloring.  Queen 
Hatasu  had  ideas  of  her  own  about  building;  also, 
her  own  architect.  His  name  was  Senmut,  and  his 
tomb,  a  mile  from  the  temple,  commands  a  view  of 
it  to  this  day. 

355 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


Hatasu  once  made  a  notable  expedition  to  the 
lower  east  coast  of  Africa — to  Punt,  as  it  was  called 
then,  and  she  has  recorded  it  on  these  walls.  It 
shows  the  natives  bringing  valuable  presents — woods, 
spices,  gold,  and  the  like — ^in  exchange  for  glass 
beads  and  tin  whistles,  after  the  customary  manner 
of  such  barter.  A  part  of  the  relief  shows  the  Prince 
of  Punt  and  "Mrs.  Punt,"  whose  figure  was  certainly 
remarkable,  followed  by  their  family,  all  with  hands 
raised  in  deference  to  the  Egyptian  Queen. 

It  was  near  here,  in  1881,  that  the  cave  or  pit  was 
found  containing  the  mummies  of  many  kings,  in- 
cluding Seti  I.,  Rameses  11. ,  and  others  who  had  been 
stored  here  for  safety.  Arabs  had  been  selling  royal 
scarabs  for  some  time,  and  the  archaeologists  finally 
discovered  the  secret  of  their  supply.  It  was  a 
priceless  find,  and  with  the  treasures  of  the  tomb  of 
Amenophis  11. ,  made  the  museum  of  Cairo  the 
richest  archaeological  depository  in  the  world. 

We  put  in  the  afternoon  visiting  temples,  mostly 
of  Rameses  the  Great,  and  looking  at  statues  which 
he  had  caused  to  be  erected  of  himself  wherever 
there  was  room.  I  remember  one  colossal  granite 
figure  of  that  self-sufficient  king,  lying  prostrate  on 
the  sand  now,  estimated  to  weigh  a  thousand  tons — 
which  is  to  say  two  million  pounds.  That  statue  was 
sixty  feet  high  when  it  stood  upright,  and  it  is  cut 
like  a  gem.  It  was  brought  down  from  Assuan  in 
one  piece,  by  barge,  as  was  the  enormous  granite 
base,  which  is  thirty  feet  long,  sixteen  feet  wide,  and 
eight  feet  thick. 

I    remember,    too,   some    sun-dried   brick  —  brick 

35^ 


The  Still  Valley  of  the  Kings 


made  by  the  Israelites,  maybe  —  with  the  imprint 
of  Rameses  still  on  them,  uneffaced  after  thirty- 
three  centuries.  The  sun  bakes  hard  in  Egypt; 
no  other  kiln  is  needed.  I  remember  a  temple  of 
Rameses  III.  and  a  pictorial  record  of  one  of  his 
victories.  His  soldiers  had  reported  a  kilHng  of 
twelve  thousand  of  the  enemy ;  he  said : 

"Go  bring  the  evidence.  If  you  have  those  dead 
men  anywhere  you  can  bring  something  to  prove  it." 

So  the  army  returned  and  got  the  right  hands  of 
their  victims.  The  story  is  all  cut  there  on  the 
walls,  and  the  hands  are  there  too. 

Rameses  III.  knew  the  custom  inaugurated  by  his 
ancestor  **The  Great,"  of  eHminating  old  names 
with  new  ones,  and  he  took  measures  accordingly  by 
cutting  his  own  inscriptions  deep.  Some  of  them 
sink  ten  inches  into  the  walls  and  will  stay  there  a  good 
while. 

I  had  noticed  one  curious  thing  along  the  outer 
walls  of  all  these  old  temples,  to  wit:  row  after  row 
of  smooth  egg-shaped  holes,  ranging  irregularly,  one 
above  the  other,  from  the  base  upward — sometimes 
to  the  very  top.  It  was  as  if  they  had  been  dug  out 
by  some  animal  or  insect.  I  asked  Gaddis,  at  last, 
what  they  were,  and  he  told  me  this  curious  thing. 

The  childless  Arab  woman,  he  said,  for  ages  had 
believed  that  some  magic  in  these  walls  could  make 
them  fruitful,  so  had  come  and  rubbed  patiently 
with  th  ir  fingers  until  they  worked  a  few  grains  of 
the  sandstone  into  a  cup  of  water,  which  they  drank 
with  a  prayer  of  hope.  They  had  begun,  he  said,  in 
that  fo-r-off  time  when  the  temples  stood  as  clear  of 

357 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


rubbish  as  they  do  to-day ;  and,  as  the  years  heaped 
up  the  debris,  these  anxious  women  had  rubbed 
higher  and  higher  up  the  walls  until,  with  the  drift  of 
the  ages,  they  had  reached  the  very  top.  So  there  the 
record  stands  to-day,  and  when  one  realizes  how  little 
of  that  stone  can  be  rubbed  away  with  the  finger-end ; 
how  comparatively  few  must  have  been  the  childless 
mothers,  and  then  sees  how  innumerable  and  deep 
those  holes  are,  he  gets  a  sudden  and  comprehensive 
grasp  of  the  vast  stretch  of  time  these  walls  stood 
tenantless,  vanishing,  and  unregarded,  save  by  those 
generations  of  barren  women. 

We  raced  away  for  the  Colossi  of  Memnon,  where, 
I  fear,  we  did  not  linger  as  long  as  was  proper.  It 
was  growing  late — we  were  very  tired  and  were  over- 
full of  undigested  story  and  tangled  chronology. 
Also  the  scarab  men  and  flies  were  especially  bad 
just  there.  We  were  willing  to  take  a  bare  look  at 
that  majestic  pair  who  have  watched  the  sun  rise 
morning  after  morning  while  a  great  city  vanished 
away  from  around  them,  and  then  go  steaming  away 
across  the  sands  for  the  Nile  and  the  cool  rest  of  the 
hotel. 

Such  a  time  as  we  had  settling  with  those  donkey- 
boys — the  old  white-turbaned  sheik,  owner  of  the 
donkeys,  squatting  and  smoking  indifferently  while 
the  storm  raged  about  him.  But  it  was  over  at  last, 
and  the  boatmen  sang  again — a  quiet  afterlude  of 
that  extraordinary  day — and  collected  baksheesh  on 
the  farther  shore. 


XLII 

THE   HIGHWAY   OF   EGYPT 

THERE  could  hardly  be  a  daintier  boat  than  the 
Memnon.  It  just  holds  our  party;  it  is  as  clean 
and  speckless  as  possible,  and  there  is  an  open  deck 
the  full  width  of  the  tiny  steamer,  with  pretty  rugs 
and  lazy  chairs,  where  we  may  lounge  and  drowse  and 
dream  and  look  out  on  the  gently  passing  panorama 
of  the  Nile. 

For  we  have  left  Luxor,  and  are  floating  in  this 
peaceful  fashion  down  to  Cairo,  resting  in  the  delight 
of  it,  after  those  fierce  temple-hunting,  tomb-visiting 
days.  Not  that  we  are  entirely  through  with  temples 
and  the  like.  Here  and  there  we  tie  up  to  the  bank, 
and  go  ashore  and  scamper  away  on  donkeys  to  some 
tumbled  ruin,  but  it  is  a  diversion  now,  not  a  business, 
and  we  find  such  stops  welcome.  For  the  most  part 
we  spend  our  days  just  idling,  and  submitting  to  the 
spell  of  Egypt,  which  has  encompassed  us  and  pos- 
sessed us  as  it  will  encompass  and  possess  any  one 
who  has  a  trace  of  the  old  human  tendency  to  drift 
and  dream. 

It  has  been  said  of  Boston  that  it  is  less  a  locality 
than  a  state  of  mind.  I  wish  /  had  said  that — of 
Egypt.  I  will  say  it  now,  and  without  humor,  for 
of  this  land  it  is  so  eminently  true.  A  mere  river- 
bank;  a  filament  of  green;  a  long  slender  lotus-stem, 

359 


The  ^hip -Dwellers 


of  which  the  Delta  is  the  flower — that  is  Egypt.  Re- 
mote— shut  in  by  the  desert  and  the  dead  hills — it 
is  far  less  a  country  and  a  habitation  than  a  psycho- 
logical condition  which  all  the  mummied  ages  have 
been  preparing — which  the  traveller  from  the  earliest 
moment  is  bound  to  feel.  It  has  lived  so  long!  It 
had  made  and  recorded  its  history  when  the  rest  of 
the  world  was  dealing  in  nursery-tales !  The  glamour 
of  that  stately  past  has  become  the  spell,  the  enchant- 
ment of  to-day.  The  magic  of  the  lotus  grows  more 
potent  with  the  years. 

It  is  such  a  narrow  land!  "Sometimes  the  lifeless 
hills  close  in  on  one  side  or  the  other  to  the  water's 
edge.  Nowhere  is  the  fertile  strip  wide,  for  its  fer- 
tility depends  wholly  on  the  water  it  receives  from 
the  Nile,  and  when  that  water  is  drawn  up  by  hand 
with  a  goat-skin  pail  and  a  well-sweep — a  shaduf,  as 
they  call  it — it  means  that  fields  cannot  be  very  exten- 
sive, even  if  there  were  room, which  as  a  rule  there  is  not. 

Think  of  watering  a  whole  wheat-field  with  a  well- 
sweep  and  a  pail!  Furthermore,  where  the  banks  are 
high  the  water  is  sometimes  lifted  three  times  between 
the  Nile  and  the  surface,  and  much  of  it  is  wasted  in 
transit.  It  is  the  oldest  form  of  irrigation;  the 
hieroglyphics  show  that  it  was  in  use  in  Egypt  five 
thousand  years  ago.  It  is  also  still  the  most  popular 
form  in  Upper  Egypt.  We  saw  a  good  many  of  the 
sakkieh  —  primitive  and  wastful  water-wheels  pro- 
pelled by  a  buffalo  or  a  camel  or  a  cow  —  and  at  rare 
intervals  a  windmill,  where  some  Englishman  has 
established  a  plantation,  but  it  is  the  shaduf  that 
largely  predominates. 

360 


THINK    OF    WATERING    A    WHOLE    WHEAT-FIELD    WITH    A 
WELL-SWEEP    AND    A    PAIL 


The  Highway  of  Egypt 


The  mud  villages  among  the  date-palms  are  un- 
failingly picturesque ;  the  sail  -  boats  of  the  Nile  — 
markah  they  call  them — drifting  down  upon  us  like 
great  butterflies,  have  a  charm  not  to  be  put  in  words ; 
the  life  along  the  shores  never  loses  its  interest;  the 
sun  sets  and  the  sun  rises  round  the  dreamy  days 
with  a  marvel  of  color  that  seems  each  time  more 
wonderful.  Then  there  is  the  moonlight.  But  I 
must  not  speak  of  Egyptian  moonlight  or  I  shall  lose 
my  sense  of  proportion  altogether,  for  it  is  like  no 
other  light  that  ever  lay  on  sea  or  land. 

We  do  not  travel  through  the  night,  but  anchor  at 
dusk  until  daybreak.  It  is  curious  to  reflect  that 
one  sees  the  entire  country  on  a  trip  like  this,  if  he 
rises  early.  We  do  rise  early,  most  of  us — though  the 
cool  nights  (nights  are  always  cool  in  Egypt)  and 
the  stillness  are  an  inducement  to  sleep — and  we  are 
usually  very  hungry  before  breakfast  comes  along. 
One  may  have  coffee  on  the  deck  if  he  likes — the 
picturesque  Arab  will  bring  it  joyfully,  especially 
where  there  is  a  baksheesh  at  the  end.  It  is  good 
coffee,  too,  and  the  food  is  good;  everything  is  good 
on  the  Memnon  except  the  beverages  and  the  cigars. 
The  wine  could  be  improved  and  the  cigars  could  be 
thrown  away.  I  paid  a  shilling  for  one  that  was  as 
hard  as  a  stick  and  crimibled  to  dust  when  I  bit  it. 
Never  mind  the  flavor.  That  brand  was  called  "The 
Scarab . "  It  should  have  been  named  * '  The  Mummy ' ' 
— it  had  all  the  characteristics. 

The  pilot  commands  this  boat — the  captain  merely 
conducts  the  excursion.  The  captain  wears  Euro- 
pean dress  and  speaks  English,  but  the  pilot  is  Arab 

361 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


throughout  —  dark  -  faced,  heavily  turbaned,  silent  — 
watching  the  water  like  a  sphinx.  Now  and  then  he 
makes  a  motion  and  says  a  word  to  the  steersman 
at  his  side.  Whenever  we  lie  up  or  strike  safe  water 
he  locates  Mecca,  prostrates  himself,  and  pra^^^.  I 
should  think  his  emotions  would  be  conflicting  at 
times.  Doctrinally,  of  course,  it  is  his  duty  to  pray 
for  the  boat  to  sink  and  exterminate  this  crowd. 
Professionally,  it  is  his  duty  to  take  us  safely  to 
Cairo.  Poor  old  Abbas!  how  are  you  going  to 
explain  to  the  prophet  by-and-by? 

We  may  not  reach  Cairo,  however.  The  Nile  is 
shallow  at  this  season,  and  already  we  have  scraped 
the  sand  more  than  once.  It  is  a  curious  river — full 
of  currents  and  shifting  sand — the  water  getting 
scantier  as  you  descend.  That  seemed  strange  to 
us  until  we  realize  that  its  entire  flow  comes  from 
the  far  interior;  that  it  has  no  feeding  tributaries, 
while  the  steady  evaporation,  the  irrigation,  and  the 
absorption  of  these  burning  sands  constitute  a  heavy 
drain.  It  is  hard  to  grasp  a  condition  like  that,  or 
what  this  river  means — has  always  meant — to  the 
dwellers  along  its  shores.  Not  alone  an  artery  of 
life,  it  is  life  itself — water,  food,  clothing,  cleanliness. 

They  don't  take  as  much  advantage  of  that  last 
blessing  as  they  should — nor  of  the  next  to  the  last. 
It  is  true  that  most  of  them  have  some  semblance  of 
clothing,  but  not  all  of  them.  In  this  interior  Nile,  as 
we  may  call  the  district  between  Luxor  and  Cairo,  early 
principles  to  some  extent  still  prevail.  At  first  we  saw 
boys — donkey-boys  and  the  like — without  any  per- 
ceivable clothing,  and  more  lately  we  have  seen  men 

362 


The  Highway  of  Egypt 


— ^brown-skinned  muscular  creatures  loading  boats — 
utterly  destitute  of  wardrobe.  Yet,  somehow,  these 
things  did  not  shock  us — not  greatly.  They  seemed 
to  go  with  the  sun,  and  the  dead  blue  sky  and  the 
other  scenery.     A  good  deal  depends  on  surroundings. 

Our  stops  were  not  all  brief.  We  put  in  a  full  day 
at  Abydos,  where  there  is  a  splendid  temple  built  by 
Seti  I.,  and  Rameses  the  Great  (of  course),  and  where 
the  donkeys  are  as  poor  as  they  are  good  in  Luxor. 
Not  that  they  were  wretched  in  appearance,  or  ill- 
cared  for,  but  they  were  a  stiff-necked,  unwilling 
breed.  Mine  had  a  way  of  stopping  suddenly  and 
facing  about  toward  home.  Twice  I  went  over  his  head 
during  these  manoeuvres,  which  the  others  thought 
entertaining. 

But  they  had  their  troubles,  too.  The  distance  to 
the  temple  was  long — eight  miles,  I  should  think — 
and  part  of  the  way  the  road  was  an  embankment 
several  feet  high.  Some  of  the  donkeys  seemed  to 
think  it  amusing  to  suddenly  decide  to  go  down  this 
embankment  and  make  off  over  the  desert.  We  were 
a  scattering,  disordered  cavalcade,  and  what  with  the 
flies  and  distracting  donkey-boys  who  were  perpetually 
at  one's  side  with  "Mister,  good  donkey — fine  donkey 
— baksheesh,  mister,"  the  trip  was  a  memorable  one. 
Once  when  my  donkey,  whose  name  was  ''Straight 
Flush"  and  should  have  been  "Two-spot"  got  behind 
the  party,  I  caught  my  attendant,  not  only  twisting 
his  tail,  but  biting  it. 

It  was  a  good  excursion,  on  the  whole.  We  had 
luncheon  in  the  great  hall  of  the  temple,  and  I  could 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


not  help  wondering  who  had  held  the  first  feast  in 
that  mighty  place  where  we  were  holding  the  last, 
to  date. 

We  feel  at  home  now  in  a  temple,  especially  when 
we  see  the  relief  of  our  faithful  Rameses,  and  of 
Osiris,  king  of  the  underworld,  and  his  kind.  We 
have  become  familiar  and  even  disrespectful  toward 
these  great  guardians  of  the  past.  This  makes  it  hard 
on  Gaddis  at  times ;  especially  after  luncheon,  when 
we  are  in  a  sportive  mood. 

'*Zis  is  ze  temple  of  Rameses  ze  Great" — he  begins. 

**Ah,  so  it  is — we  suspected  it  all  along." 

"Here  you  will  see  hees  seventy-two  son — " 

"Sure  enough — our  old  friends." 

"And  hees  fourteen  wive." 

"Happy  man,  but  why  a  king  and  so  few?" 

"An'  here  all  zose  seventy-two  son  carry  gift  to 
Osiris—" 

"King  of  the  underworld — so  they  do,  we  would 
recognize  that  gang  anywhere." 

Truly,  it  is  time  we  were  giving  up  temples ;  we  are 
no  longer  serious.  But  in  this  temple  of  Seti  I.,  at 
Abydos,  we  sometimes  forgot  to  jest.  Frivolous  and 
riotous  as  we  have  become,  we  were  silent  in  the 
presence  of  one  splendid  decoration  of  Seti  offering 
sacrifice  before  the  sacred  boat,  and  again  where  we 
confronted  in  a  corridor  that  precious  and  beautiful 
relief  carving,  the  Tablet  of  Egypt's  Kings.  The 
cartouche  of  every  king  down  to  Seti  I.  is  there — 
with  one  exception:  the  name  of  Amenophis  IV., 
the  king  who  abandoned  his  faith  and  worshipped 
his  mother's  gods,  has  no  place  in  that  royal  company. 

364 


The  Highway  of  Egypt 


Otherwise  the  story  is  as  complete  as  it  is  impressive, 
and  I  recognized  something  of  what  that  document 
means  to  those  of  Egypt  who  know  (like  Gaddis), 
when  I  put  out  a  finger  to  touch  the  exquisite  work 
and  he  whispered,  **No,  please." 

What  record  will  there  be  of  our  history  thirty-five 
centuries  from  now  ?  Not  a  book  of  all  those  printed 
to-day  will  last  any  considerable  fraction  of  that 
period.  A  tablet  like  this  sets  one  to  wondering 
if  we  should  not  get  an  appropriation  to  preserve  at 
least  the  skeleton  of  our  chronology  on  plates  of 
bronze  to  be  stored  in  some  deep  vault  safe  from  the 
ravages  of  fire  and  flood  and  earthquake. 

We  also  stopped  at  Assuit,  or  Asyut,  or  Suit — 
I  like  these  Egyptian  names — you  can  spell  them 
any  way  you  please.  Every  one  of  them  has  all  the 
spellings  you  can  think  of;  you  could  not  invent  a 
new  one  if  you  tried.  It  is  at  Assuit  they  make  the 
spangled  shawls,  and  the  natives  flock  down  to  the 
boat-landing  to  sell  them.  Gaddis  had  probably  tele- 
graphed ahead  that  a  floating  asylum  of  Americans 
was  on  the  way  and  they  had  assembled  accordingly. 
Long  before  we  were  in  trading  distance  they  began 
to  dance  about  and  gesticulate — the  sheen  of  their 
fabrics  blazing  in  the  sun — crymg  the  prices  which 
they  did  not  expect  to  get. 

Some  of  our  ladies  were  quite  eager,  and  began  to 
make  offers  when  we  were  still  many  yards  from 
shore.  I  suppose  they  thought  the  supply  was 
limited.  By  the  time  we  touched  the  landing  the 
wildest  trading  was  already  going  on.  Shawls  rolled 
in  a  ball  were  being  flung  aboard  for  examination, 
24  365 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


and  flung  back  wildly  with  preposterous  under-bids, 
only  to  come  hurtling  back  again  with  a  fierce  protest 
of  refusal.  For  a  time  it  was  a  regular  game  of 
snowball  and  fireworks.  There  were  canes  to  sell, 
too,  and  fly- whips — beautiful  ivory -handled  things. 
Commerce  swelled  to  high  tide.  In  the  midst  of  the 
melee  somebody  happened  to  notice,  what  we  had 
not  seen  before,  another  steamer  lying  a  little  way 
ahead — an  English  party,  we  were  told — the  ladies 
and  gentlemen  quietly  reading  or  pityingly  regarding 
our  exhibition.  I  know,  now,  that  the  English  have 
no  sense  of  humor.  Another  American  boat  would 
have  been  in  spasms  of  delight  at  our  antics.  Also, 
the  Englishman's  Egypt  is  not  as  ours,  and  he  does 
not  enjoy  it  as  much.  How  could  he,  without  loading 
up,  as  we  did,  with  those  wonderful  Assuit  shawls  ? 

Only  one  more  stop  along  the  Nile  will  I  record. 
This  was  at  Tell  al-Amama,  where,  in  the  desert  a 
little  beyond  the  green,  lies  all  that  is  left  of  the  city 
built  by  the  heretic  king,  Amenophis  IV.,  who 
abandoned  Amen-Ra  for  the  sun-worship  of  his 
Mesopotamia  mother.  Queen  Thi. 

It  was  a  splendid  granite  city  once,  but  it  is  all 
gone  now.  Only  a  little  of  the  floor  of  the  palace  is 
left,  Queen  Thi's  apartment,  Gaddis  said,  but  it  held 
for  us  a  curious  interest.  For  it  is  painted,  or  per- 
haps enamelled,  in  colors,  and  the  decorations,  still 
in  a  good  state  of  preservation,  are  not  Egyp- 
tian in  design,  but  Syrian  or  Persian!  The  Prin- 
cess who  had  left  her  land  to  marry  an  Egyptian 
king  could  not  forsake  her  gods  and  her  traditions, 
and  that  old  floor  remains  to-day  after  thirty-five 

366 


The  Highway  of  Egypt 


centuries  to  tell  the  story  of  her   loyalty  and  her 
love. 

We  should  have  made  other  stops,  perhaps,  but  we 
met  disaster.  The  Nile  was  low,  as  I  have  said,  and 
a  hundred  miles  below  Cairo  we  awoke  one  morning 
to  find  our  boat  hard  and  fast  aground.  We  had,  in 
fact,  grounded  the  evening  before,  and  Abbas  and  his 
men  had  been  working  all  night,  putting  out  anchors 
and  pulling  on  ropes,  a  picturesque  group,  to  the 
chorus  **Ali  sah — ali  ya  seni — ali  hoop!"  which  is 
an  appeal  to  the  god  of  the  Nile,  Gaddis  said,  in  this 
case  unavailing.  We  were  there  to  stay  for  the 
summer,  unless  we  took  train  to  Cairo,  so  after 
breakfast  Gaddis  and  I  went  ashore  with  Abra- 
ham, still  semi-officially  attached  to  our  party,  and 
walked  three  miles  to  the  nearest  railway  station  to 
see  what  might  be  done.  It  was  a  fine  walk,  even 
though  a  warm  one,  across  the  Egyptian  fields,  and  I 
saw  some  papyrus  plant  and  bought  a  distaff  and  spin- 
dle from  a  man  who  was  sitting  by  the  road  spinning 
after  the  fashion  of  the  earliest  race  of  men. 

It  was  Fachen  that  we  reached,  an  Arab  town  to 
which  tourists  never  come,  and  the  donkeys  we  ar- 
ranged for  there,  to  carry  our  party  from  the  shore 
landing  to  the  station,  were  a  nondescript  lot  without 
saddle  or  bridle — with  no  gear,  in  fact,  except  a  rem- 
nant of  rope  tied  around  the  neck.  Then  we  walked 
back  opposite  the  boat,  another  three  miles,  and 
sat  on  the  bank,  and  sweat  and  waved  our  hands  and 
called  to  those  people,  half  a  mile  away  in  mid-stream, 
who  for  some  reason  could  not  see  our  signals. 

367 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


It  was  not  uninteresting,  though.  The  natives  came 
to  inspect  us — an  unusual  opportunity  for  them — 
and  some  women  came  down  to  the  Nile  with  great 
stone  jars  for  water.  Those  jars  must  hold  eight  or 
ten  gallons,  and  are  heavy  enough  empty,  yet  those 
women  will  balance  them  on  their  heads  and  go 
stepping  away  chatting  lightly,  indifferent  to  their 
great  burdens.  They  were  barefooted  and  wore 
anklets  which  I  wanted  to  buy,  but  Gaddis  did  not 
seem  interested,  and  I  could  not  transact  a  delicate 
business  like  that  without  careful  interpretation. 

Our  people  saw  us  at  last  and  came  for  us  in  a 
boat.  Then  there  was  a  bustle  of  preparation;  a 
loading  into  the  markab  which  we  had  engaged  to 
take  us  ashore ;  a  good-bye  to  our  pretty,  unfortunate 
little  Memnon;  a  drifting  down  to  the  donkey  landing, 
and  a  sorry-looking  procession  to  the  railway. 

Our  guides  had  difficulty  settling  with  donkey-men, 
who,  never  having  had  tourists  before,  had  engaged, 
no  doubt,  at  their  usual  rates;  then  suddenly  they 
had  awakened  to  the  idea  that  they  were  missing  the 
chance  of  a  fortune.  The  baksheesh  we  gave  them 
must  have  opened  their  eyes.  Probably  they  had 
never  received  so  much  at  one  time  before.  At  all 
events,  they  came  back  for  a  new  settlement,  sur- 
rounded Gaddis  and  Abraham,  and  for  a  while  we 
thought  inferno  had  broken  loose.  Gaddis  finally 
resorted  to  a  stick,  but  Abraham,  who  is  as  big  as  a 
camel,  first  delivered  an  admonition,  and  then  ran 
bodily  upon  the  whole  crowd  and  swept  them  like 
chaff  from  the  platform. 

The  wait  at  Fachen  was  not  overlong,  but  it  became 

368 


The  Highway  of  Egypt 


a  trifle  tedious  after  the  novelty  of  the  place  had 
passed.  We  telegraphed  Cairo  of  our  coming,  and 
Abraham  entertained  us  with  a  few  marvels  to  while 
away  the  time.  He  said  that  the  stone  used  in 
building  the  pyramids  had  been  brought  across  the 
Nile;  that  such  stone  was  light  like  pumice-stone 
when  quarried;  that  it  floated  across,  and  that  the 
water  it  soaked  up  solidified  and  turned  it  into  hard, 
heavy  stone  on  the  other  side.  The  Credulous  One 
believed  this  statement.  He  said  the  Memnon  had 
grounded  on  a  reef  of  crocodiles,  at  this  season  asleep, 
tucked  up  in  the  bed  of  the  Nile.  The  Credulous  One 
believed  that,  too.  Several  of  the  party  did.  He 
said  that  all  telegrams  in  Egypt  are  sent  in  English, 
for  the  reason  that  the  Arabic  characters  get  tangled 
up  in  the  wires.  I  believed  that  myself.  He  would 
have  enlightened  us  further,  only  the  train  came  just 
then. 

We  had  to  change  at  Wasta,  where  it  was  night, 
and  I  shall  never  forget  that  fevered  scene  of  Arab 
faces  and  flaring  lamps,  and  heat,  and  thirst — the 
one  hot  night  in  Egypt — as  we  wandered  about  that 
Egyptian  station  waiting  for  the  Cairo  express. 
Suddenly  we  came  upon  another  party  of  our  ship- 
dwellers,  whose  boat,  ahead  of  ours,  had  grounded 
too.  Finding  them  there  in  that  weird  place  was  all 
like  something  in  a  fever.  Then  we  were  on  the 
express  at  last,  roaring  away  through  the  dust  and 
dark  and  heat  to  Cairo — a  flight  out  of  Egypt  so 
modem  that  one  could  imagine  the  gates  of  the  dead 
centuries  behind  us  rushing  together  with  a  bang. 


XLIII 

OTHER  WAYS  THAT  ARE  EGYPTIAN 

THE  Reprobates  were  at  Shepheard's  when  we 
returned,  enjoying  Egypt  thoroughly.  Shep- 
heard's is  a  good  place  in  which  to  enjoy  Egypt. 
Some  of  the  sights  there  are  quite  wonderful,  and 
American  refreshments  are  connected  with  an  electric 
bell. 

The  Reprobates  had  done  Upper  Egypt,  however. 
They  had  done  it  in  one  day.  They  had  left  Cairo  in 
the  evening,  telegraphing  ahead  for  carriages  to  meet 
the  train  at  Luxor,  where  they  had  arrived  next 
morning.  They  had  driven  directly  from  the  train  to 
Kamak,  from  Kamak  to  the  temple  of  Luxor,  from 
Luxor  to  the  hotel  for  luncheon.  In  the  afternoon 
they  had  soared  over  to  the  Valley  of  the  Kings ;  from 
the  Kings  they  had  dropped  down  on  the  House  of 
Hatasu,  the  temples  of  Rameses  and  others ;  they  had 
come  coursing  back  by  the  Colossi  of  Memnon  in  time 
to  catch  the  Cairo  express,  which  landed  them  at 
Shepheard's  about  daybreak.  The  Reprobates  had 
enjoyed  Upper  Egypt  very  much,  though  I  could  see 
they  regretted  the  necessity  of  devoting  all  that  time 
to  it  when  Shepheard's  still  remained  partially 
unexplored. 

I  had  hardly  landed  in  my  room  when  a  call-boy 
from  the  office  came  up  to  say  that  a  police-officer  was 

370 


Other  Ways    That  Are  Egyptian 

below,  asking  for  me.  For  a  moment  I  wondered  a 
little  feverishly  what  particular  thing  it  was  he 
wanted  me  for.  Then  the  boy  said,  * '  Pyramid  police, ' ' 
which  brought  a  gleam  of  light.  "Oh,  why — yes,  of 
course — show  him  up!" 

And  now,  while  we  are  waiting  for  him,  I  am  going 
to  record  a  circumstance  which  I  suppose  a  good  many 
readers — especially  those  familiar  with  the  East — 
may  find  it  difficult  to  believe.  Nevertheless,  it  is 
authentic  and  provable. 

In  Egypt,  baksheesh  is  a  national  institution. 
Everybody  takes  it — every  Egyptian,  I  mean;  if  I 
should  begin  by  saying  I  had  met  an  exception  to  this 
rule  I  could  not  expect  any  one  who  knows  Cairo  to 
read  any  further.     This  by-the-way. 

It  was  during  our  first  stop  in  Cairo,  and  we  had 
been  there  a  day  or  two  before  we  made  our  official 
visit  to  the  Pyramids  and  Sphinx.  We  went  in 
carriages  then,  attended  by  two  guides.  For  some 
reason,  however,  our  protectors  left  us  to  shift  pretty 
much  for  ourselves  when  we  got  there,  and  it  was 
a  pretty  poor  shift.  The  fortune-tellers  and  scarab- 
sellers  and  donkey-men  and  would-be  guides  swarmed 
about  us  and  overran  us  and  would  not  be  ap- 
peased. When  we  repulsed  them  temporarily  they 
rallied  and  broke  over  us  in  waves,  and  swept  us  here 
and  there,  until  we  became  mere  human  flotsam  and 
jetsam  on  that  tossing  Egyptian  tide. 

It  was  all  like  a  curiously  confused  dream.  Members 
of  our  party  would  suddenly  turn  up,  and  as  suddenly 
disappear  again :  there  would  be  moments  of  lull  when 
we  seemed  about  to  collect,  then,  presto!  without  any 

371 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


apparent  cause  there  would  occur  wild  confusion  and 
despair. 

It  was  no  use.  Laura  and  I  wanted  to  go  inside  the 
Great  Pyramid,  and  we  did  not  want  to  climb  it.  It 
was  impossible  to  do  one,  and  it  was  about  equally 
impossible  not  to  do  the  other.  Out  of  the  confusion 
of  things  at  last  I  remembered  a  young  officer  of  the 
police,  whom  I  had  met  riding  home  that  first  night 
on  the  trolley — a  mere  lad  of  nineteen  or  twenty,  but 
a  big  fellow,  who  spoke  excellent  English  and  said  he 
was  Superintendent  of  the  Pyramid  Police.  I  decided 
now  to  see  if  this  was  true,  and,  if  so,  to  ask  his  advice 
in  our  present  difficulties. 

I  remembered  that  the  police  station  was  near  the 
trolley  terminus,  and  we  gradually  fought  our  way 
back  there.  Yes,  there  he  was,  at  his  desk,  a  hand- 
some soldierly  figure  in  a  tall  red  fez.  He  rose  and 
bowed,  remembering  us  immediately. 

We  would  like  to  look  about  a  little,  I  said,  and  to 
go  inside  the  big  Pyramid,  but  we  preferred  to  be  alive 
when  we  got  through ;  also  fairly  decent  as  to  appear- 
ance. Couldn't  he  pick  us  out  a  guard  or  two,  who 
would  keep  the  enemy  in  check,  and  see  us  through  ? 

He  bowed  with  easy  grace. 

'*I  will  ac-company  you  myself,"  he  said. 

Now,  I  already  knew  the  custom  of  Egypt,  and  I 
began  to  make  a  hasty  estimate  of  my  ready  money, 
wondering  if  I  had  sufficient  for  a  baksheesh  of  this 
rank.  It  was  by  no  means  certain.  However,  there 
would  be  ship-dwellers  about :  I  could  borrow,  perhaps. 

I  decided  presently  that  whatever  the  duty  imposed, 
it  was  worth  it.     With  that  big  uniformed  fellow 

372 


Other  Ways   That  Are  Egyptian 

at  our  side  we  were  immune  to  all  that  hungry  horde 
of  Arab  vultures.  We  walked  through  unscathed. 
Our  protector  procured  the  entrance  tickets  for  us; 
he  selected  two  strong  men  to  push  and  pull  us  up  the 
long,  dark,  glassy-slick  passage  that  leads  to  the 
sepulchre  of  Khufu  in  the  very  heart  of  the  Pyramid ; 
he  went  with  us  himself  into  that  still  mysterious 
place,  explaining  in  perfect  English  how  five  or  six 
thousand  years  ago  the  sarcophagus  of  the  great  king 
was  pushed  up  that  incline ;  he  showed  us  the  mortises 
in  the  stone  where  uprights  were  set  to  hold  the  great 
granite  coffin  when  the  laborers  stopped  to  rest.  It 
was  a  weird  experience  in  the  cool,  quiet  darkness  of 
that  mightiest  of  tombs  with  the  flaring  candles  and 
eager  sure-footed  Arabs;  it  seemed  to  belong  in 
Rider  Haggard's  story  of  She.  Then,  after  we  had 
seen  the  old  black  sarcophagus,  which  is  empty  now, 
and  had  remained  a  little  in  that  removed  place, 
trying  to  imagine  that  we  were  really  in  the  very 
centre  of  the  big  Pyramid,  we  made  our  way  out 
again  to  light  and  the  burning  desert  heat.  I  settled 
with  our  Arabs  with  little  or  no  difficulty,  which  is 
worth  something  in  itself,  and  when  we  had  found  a 
quiet  place  I  thanked  our  guardian  and  tendered 
him  what  I  thought  a  liberal  honorarium — fairly 
liberal,  even  for  America. 
He  drew  back  a  little. 
"Oh  no,"  he  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon." 
I  had  not  made  it  large  enough  then.  I  glanced 
about  for  some  of  the  party  who  would  have  funds. 
**I  am  sorry,"  I  began,  "it  is  not  more.  I  will — " 
"I  beg  your  pardon,"  he  repeated,  "but  I  could 

373 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


not  accept  anything  for  what  is  but  my  duty.  I  am 
only  very  glad  to  do  what  I  may  for  you.  I  will  do 
something  more,  if  you  wish." 

Then,  of  course,  I  knew  it  must  be  a  dream,  and  that 
I  would  wake  up  presently  in  Shepheard's  Hotel  to 
find  that  we  hadn't  started  for  the  Pyramids  yet. 
Still,  I  would  keep  up  the  blessed  trance  a  moment 
longer. 

''You  mean  that  you  will  not  allow  me  to  acknowl- 
edge your  great  favor  to  us?"  I  said  in  that  polite 
manner  for  which  our  ship  is  justly  famous. 

'  *  Not  in  money, ' '  he  said,  ' '  The  Government  pays 
me  a  salary  for  my  work  and  this  is  only  part  of  my 
work.     It  has  also  given  me  pleasure." 

I  surreptitiously  pinched  myself  in  certain  tender 
places  to  see  if  I  couldn't  wake  up.  It  was  no  use. 
He  persisted  in  his  refusal,  and  presently  produced  an 
ancient  corroded  coin,  Greek  or  Roman,  such  as  is 
sometimes  found  among  the  debris. 

' '  I  should  like  to  offer  you  this, ' '  he  said.  '  *  I  found 
it  myself,  so  I  am  sure  it  is  genuine." 

Ah,  this  was  the  delicate  opportunity. 

''You  will  let  me  buy  it,  of  course." 

But  no,  he  declined  that,  too.  He  wished  us  only 
to  remember  him,  he  insisted.     He  added: 

"I  have  two  scarabs  at  home;  I  should  like  to 
bring  them  to  your  hotel." 

It  was  rather  dazing.  The  seller  of  scarabs — 
genuine  or  imitation — will  not  let  a  prospective  pur- 
chaser get  out  of  sight.  I  wondered  why  we  should 
be  trusted  in  this  unheard-of  way;  I  also  wondered 
what  those  two  scarabs  were  likely  to  be    worth. 

374 


Other  Ways   That  Are  Egyptian 

Could  he  come  to-night?  I  asked;  we  should  be 
sight-seeing  to-morrow  and  leaving  for  Upper  Egypt 
in  the  afternoon. 

But  no,  he  would  not  be  home  in  time.  He  would 
wait  until  we  returned  from  Upper  Egypt. 

So  it  was  we  had  parted,  and  in  the  tumult  of  sight- 
seeing up  the  Nile  I  had  forgotten  the  matter  alto- 
gether. Now,  here  he  was.  I  counted  up  my  spare 
currency,  and  waited. 

He  had  on  his  best  smile  as  he  entered,  also  a  brand- 
new  uniform,  and  he  certainly  made  a  handsome  figure. 
He  inquired  as  to  our  sight-seeing  up  the  Nile,  then 
rather  timidly  he  produced  two  of  those  Httle  Egyp- 
tian gems — a  scarab  and  an  amulet,  such  as  men  and 
women  of  old  Egypt  wore,  and  took  with  them  to 
their  tombs. 

"I  got  them  from  a  man  who  took  them  from  a 
mummy.  They  are  genuine.  I  want  to  give  them 
to  you  and  the  little  la-dy,"  he  said. 

"But  you  must  not  give  them  to  us — they  are  too 
valuable,"  I  began. 

He  flushed  and  straightened  up  a  little. 

"But  that  is  why  I  wish  you  to  have  them." 

Now,  of  course,  no  one  who  knows  Cairo  can  ever 
believe  that  story.  Yet  it  all  truly  happened,  pre- 
cisely as  I  have  set  it  down.  He  was  just  a  young 
Egyptian  who  had  attended  school  in  Alexandria,  and 
he  spoke  and  wrote  English,  French,  Italian,  and  the 
dialects  of  Arabic.  The  Egyptian  acquires  the  lore 
of  languages  naturally,  it  would  seem,  but  that  this 
youth  should  acquire  all  those  things,  and  such  a 

375. 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


standard  of  honor  and  generosity,  here  in  a  land 
where  baksheesh  is  the  native  god,  did  seem  amazing. 
When  we  left,  he  wrote  down  our  address  in  the 
neatest  possible  hand,  requesting  permission  to  send 
us  something  more. 

Note. — As  my  reputation  for  truth  is  already  gone  I  may  as 
well  add,  a  year  later,  that  he  has  since  sent  two  presents — some 
little  funerary  figures,  and  a  beautiful  ivory-handled  fly-whip. 


XLIV 

SAKKARA   AND   THE    SACRED   BULLS 

ONE  begins  and  finishes  Egypt  with  Cairo. 
Starting  with  the  Sphinx  and  Pyramids  of  the 
Fourth  Dynasty,  you  work  down  through  the  Theban 
periods  of  the  Upper  Nile  and  then  once  more  at 
Cairo,  leap  far  back  into  the  First  period  in  a  trip  to 
Memphis,  the  earliest  capital  of  Egypt,  the  beginning 
of  all  Egyptian  things.  After  which,  follows  the 
Museum,  for  only  after  visiting  localities  and  land- 
marks can  that  great  climax  be  properly  approached. 

I  think  we  were  no  longer  very  enthusiastic  about 
ruins,  but  every  one  said  we  must  go  to  Sakkara. 
There  was  yet  another  very  wonderful  statue  of 
Rameses  there,  they  said,  also  the  oldest  pyramids 
ever  built,  and  the  Mausoleum  of  the  Sacred  Bulls. 
It  would  never  do  to  miss  them. 

I  am  glad  now  that  I  did  not  miss  them,  but  I 
remember  the  Memphis  donkeys  with  unkindness. 
The  farther  down  the  Nile  the  worse  the  donkeys. 
We  thought  they  had  been  bad  at  Abydos,  but  the 
Abydos  donkeys  were  without  sin  compared  with 
those  of  Sakkara.  Mine  was  named  "Sunrise,"  and  I 
picked  him  for  his  beauty,  always  a  dangerous  asset. 
He  was  thoroughly  depraved  and  had  a  gait  like  a 
steam-drill.  The  boat  landed  us  at  Bedrashen  and  I 
managed  to  survive  as  far  as  the  colossal  statue  of 

377 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


Rameses,  a  prostrate  marvel,  and  the  site  of  the 
ancient  city  of  Menes — capital  of  Egypt  a  good  deal 
more  than  six  thousand  years  ago — that  is,  before  the 
world  began,  by  gospel  calculation.  I  was  perfectly 
willing  to  stay  there  among  the  cooling  palms  and 
watch  the  little  children  gather  camel-dung  and  pat 
it  into  cakes  to  dry  for  fuel,  and  I  would  have  done  it 
if  I  had  known  what  was  going  to  happen  to  me. 

It  is  a  weary  way  across  the  desert  to  the  pyramids 
and  the  tombs  of  those  sacred  bulls,  but  I  was  not 
informed  of  that.  When  I  realized,  it  was  too  late. 
The  rest  of  the  party  were  far  ahead  of  me  beyond 
some  hills,  and  I  was  alone  in  the  desert  with  that 
long-eared  disaster  and  a  donkey-boy  who  stopped 
to  talk  with  the  children,  beset  by  a  plague  of  flies 
that  would  have  brought  Pharaoh  to  terms.  It  was 
useless  to  kick  and  hammer  that  donkey  or  to  denounce 
the  donkey-boy.  Sunrise  had  long  ago  formulated 
his  notions  of  speed,  and  the  donkey-boy  was  simply 
a  criminal  in  disguise.  When  we  passed  a  mud  vil- 
lage, at  last,  and  a  new  brigade  of  flies  joined  those 
I  had  with  me,  I  would  have  given  any  reasonable 
sum  to  have  been  at  Cairo  with  the  Reprobates,  in 
the  cool  quiet  of  Shepheard's  marble  halls. 

Beyond  the  village  was  just  the  sand  waste,  and  not 
a  soul  of  the  party  in  sight.  I  didn't  have  the  courage 
to  go  back,  and  hardly  the  courage  to  go  on.  I  said  I 
would  lie  down  by  the  trail  and  die,  and  let  them  find 
me  there  and  be  sorry  they  had  forsaken  me  in  that 
pitiless  way.  Then  for  the  sake  of  speed  I  got  off 
and  walked.  It  was  heavy  walking  through  the  loose 
sand,  with  the  sun  blazing  down. 

378 


Sakkara  and  the  Sacred  Bulls 


Presently  I  looked  around  for  my  escort.  He  was 
close  at  my  heels — on  the  donkey's  back.  I  said  the 
most  crushing  things  I  could  think  of  and  displaced 
him.  Then  we  settled  down  into  the  speed  of  a  ram- 
headed  sphinx  again.  Everything  seemed  utterly 
hopeless.  It  was  useless  to  swear;  I  was  too  old  to 
cry. 

I  don't  know  when  we  reached  the  first  pyramid, 
but  the  party  had  been  there  and  gone.  I  did  not 
care  for  it  much.  It  might  be  the  oldest  pyramid  in 
the  world,  but  it  was  rather  a  poor  specimen,  I 
thought,  and  could  not  make  me  forget  my  sorrow. 
I  went  on,  and  after  a  weary  time  came  to  the  Tomb 
of  Thi,  who  lived  in  the  Fifth  Dynasty  and  was  in  no 
way  related  to  Queen  Thi  of  Tell  al-Amama,  who 
came  along  some  two  thousand  years  later.  There 
was  an  Englishman  and  his  guide  there  who  told  me 
about  it,  and  it  was  worth  seeing,  certainly,  with  its 
relief  frescoes  over  ^v^  thousand  years  old,  though  it 
is  not  such  a  tomb  as  those  of  the  Upper  Nile. 

I  overtook  the  party  at  the  Tomb  of  the  Sacred 
Bulls.  By  that  time  I  had  little  enthusiasm  for  bulls ; 
or  for  tombs,  unless  it  was  one  I  could  use  for  Sunrise. 
The  party  had  done  the  bulls,  but  when  I  got  hold  of 
Gaddis  and  laid  my  case  before  him,  he  said  he  would 
find  me  a  new  donkey  and  that  the  others  would 
wait  while  we  inspected  the  bulls.  So  everything 
was  better  then,  and  I  was  glad  of  the  bulls,  though 
I  was  still  warm  and  resentful  at  Sunrise  and  his 
keeper,  and  even  at  Gaddis,  who  was  innocent  enough. 
Heaven  knows. 

In  the  tomb  of  the  bulls  everything  unpleasant 

379 


The  Ship 'Dwellers 


passed  away.  It  was  cool  and  dark  in  there,  and  we 
carried  lights  and  wandered  along  those  vast  still 
corridors,  which  are  simply  astounding  when  one 
remembers  their  purpose. 

This  Serapeum  or  Apis  mausoleum  is  a  vast  suc- 
cession of  huge  underground  vaults  and  elaborate 
granite  sarcophagi,  which  once  contained  all  the  Apis 
or  Sacred  Bulls  of  Memphis.  The  Apis  was  the  prod- 
uct of  an  immaculate  conception.  Lightning  de- 
scended from  heaven  upon  a  cow — any  cow — and  the 
Apis  was  the  result.  He  was  recognized  by  being 
black,  with  a  triangular  spot  of  white  on  his  forehead 
and  a  figure  of  an  eagle  on  his  back.  Furthermore,  he 
had  double  hairs  in  his  tail  and  a  beetle  on  his  tongue. 
It  was  recognized  that  only  lightning  could  produce 
a  bull  like  that,  and  no  others  were  genuine,  regardless 
of  watchful  circumstance. 

Apis  was  about  the  most  sacred  of  the  whole  synod 
of  Egyptian  beasts.  Even  the  Hawk  of  Horus  and 
the  Jackal  of  Anubis  had  to  retire  to  obscurity  when 
Apis  came  along,  mumbling  and  pawing  up  the  dust. 
When  he  died  there  were  very  solemn  ceremonies,  and 
he  was  put  into  one  of  those  polished  granite  sar- 
cophagi, with  a  tablet  on  the  walls  relating  the  story 
of  his  life,  and  mentioning  the  King  whose  reign  had 
been  honored  by  this  bellowing  bovine  aristocrat. 
Also  they  set  up  a  special  chapel  over  his  tomb,  and 
this  series  of  chapels  and  tombs  eventually  solidified 
into  a  great  temple  with  pylons  approached  by  an 
avenue  of  sphinxes. 

The  Serapeum  dates  from  about  1500  b.c.  and  con- 
tinued in  active  use  down  to  the  time  of  the  Ptolomies. 

380 


Sakkara  and  the  Sacred  Bulls 


The  Egyptian  Pantheon  was  breaking  up  then,  and 
Apis  was  probably  one  of  the  fii-st  deities  to  go.  A 
nation's  gods  fall  into  disrepute  when  they  can  no 
longer  bring  victory  to  a  nation's  arms,  and  a  sacred 
bull  who  could  not  beat  off  Julius  Caesar  would  very 
likely  be  asked  to  resign. 

There  are  sixty-four  vaults  in  the  part  of  the  Serap- 
eum  we  visited,  and  twenty-four  of  them  contain  the 
granite  sarcophagi.  The  sarcophagi  are  about  thirteen 
feet  long  by  eleven  feet  wide,  and  eight  high — that  is 
to  say,  the  size  of  an  ordinary  bedroom — and  in  each 
of  these,  mummified  and  in  state,  an  Apis  slept. 

He  is  not  there  now.  Only  two  of  him  were  found 
when  these  galleries  were  opened  in  modem  times. 
But  I  have  seen  Apis,  for  one  of  him  sleeps  now  in  a 
glass  case  in  the  Historical  Library  in  New  York 
City.  I  shall  visit  him  again  on  my  return,  and  view 
him  with  deeper  interest  and  more  respect  since  I 
have  seen  his  tomb. 

25 


XLV 

A    VISIT   WITH    RAMESES    II. 

1HAVE  never  quite  known  just  how  it  was  I  hap- 
pened to  be  overlooked  and  deserted  that  next 
evening  at  the  Museum.  I  remember  walking  miles 
through  its  wonderful  galleries;  I  recollect  standing 
before  the  rare  group  of  Rameses  and  his  queen — 
recently  discovered  and  put  in  place — the  most  beauti- 
ful sculpture  in  Egypt;  I  recall  that  we  visited  the 
room  of  Mr.  Theodore  Davis  and  looked  on  all  the 
curiously  modern  chairs  and  couches  and  the  per- 
fectly preserved  chariot  taken  from  the  tombs  opened 
in  the  Valley  of  the  Kings ;  also  the  room  where  all 
the  royal  jewels  are  kept,  marvellous  necklaces  and 
amulets,  and  every  ornament  that  would  delight  a 
king  or  queen  in  any  age ;  I  have  a  confused  impression 
of  hundreds  of  bronze  and  thousands  of  clay  figures 
taken  from  tombs;  I  know  that,  as  a  grand  climax, 
we  came  at  last  to  the  gem  of  the  vast  collection,  the 
room  where  Seti  I.,  Rameses  the  Great,  and  the 
rest  of  the  royal  dead,  found  at  Der  al-Bahari,  lie 
asleep.  I  remember,  too,  that  I  was  tired  then, 
monumentally  tired  in  the  thought  that  this  was  the 
last  word  in  Egypt;  that  we  were  done;  that  there 
was  no  need  of  keeping  up  and  alive  for  further  en- 
deavor— that  only  before  us  lay  the  sweet  anticipation 
of  rest. 

382 


A   Visit  With   Rameses  II, 


The  others  were  tired,  too,  but  they  wanted  to  buy 
some  things  in  the  little  salesroom  down-stairs,  and 
were  going,  presently.  They  would  come  back  and 
see  the  kings  again,  later.  I  said  I  would  stay  there 
and  commune  a  little  alone  with  the  great  Seti,  and  his 
royal  son,  who,  in  that  dim  long  ago,  had  remembered 
himself  so  numerously  along  the  Nile.  They  meant 
to  come  back,  no  doubt,  the  party,  I  mean ;  they  claim 
now  that  the  main  museum  was  already  closed  when 
they  had  finished  their  purchases,  and  they  supposed 
I  had  gone.  It  does  not  matter,  I  have  forgiven  them, 
whatever  their  sin. 

It  was  pleasant  and  restful  there,  when  they  had 
left  me.  I  dropped  down  on  a  little  seat  against  the 
wall  and  looked  at  those  still  figures,  father  and  son, 
kings,  mighty  warriors  and  temple-builders  when  the 
glory  of  Egypt  was  at  full  flood. 

It  was  an  impressive  thought  that  those  stately 
temples  up  the  Nile,  which  men  travel  across  the  world 
to  see,  were  built  by  these  two;  that  the  statues  are 
their  statues ;  that  the  battles  and  sacrifices  depicted 
on  a  thousand  walls  were  their  battles  and  their  sacri- 
fices; that  they  loved  and  fought  and  conquered, 
and  set  up  monuments  in  those  far-off  centuries  when 
history  was  in  its  sunrise,  yet  lie  here  before  us  in 
pe  son  to-day,  frail  drift  on  the  long  tide  of  years. 

And  it  was  a  solemn  thought  that  their  life  story 
is  forever  done — that  any  life  story  can  last  but  a 
little  while.  Tossed  up  out  of  the  unexplored,  one's 
feet  some  day  touch  the  earth — the  ancient  earth  that 
had  been  going  on  so  long  before  we  came.  Then,  for 
a  few  years,  we  bustle  importantly  up  and  down — 

383 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


fight  battles  and  build  temples,  maybe — and  all  at 
once  slip  back  into  the  uncharted  waste,  while  the 
world — the  ancient  world — fights  new  battles,  builds 
new  temples,  sends  new  ships  across  the  sea,  though 
we  have  part  in  it  no  more,  no  more — forever,  and 
forever. 

Looking  at  those  two,  who  in  their  brief  sojourn 
had  made  and  recorded  some  of  the  most  ancient 
history  we  know,  I  recalled  portions  of  their  pictured 
story  on  the  temple  walls  and  tried  to  build  a  human 
semblance  of  their  daily  lives.  Of  course  they  were 
never  troubled  with  petty  things,  I  thought;  econ- 
omies, frivolities,  small  vanities,  domestic  irritations 
— these  were  modern.  They  had  been  as  gods  in 
the  full  panoply  of  a  race  divinely  new.  They  had 
been — 

But  it  was  too  much  of  an  effort.  I  was  too  worn. 
I  could  only  look  at  them,  and  envy  the  long  nap 
they  were  having  there  under  the  glass  in  that  still, 
pleasant  room. 

I  was  a  good  deal  surprised,  then,  when  I  fancied  I 
saw  Rameses  stir  and  appear  a  little  restless  in  his 
sleep.  It  was  even  more  interesting  to  see  him  pres- 
ently slide  away  the  glass  and  sit  up.  I  thought  there 
must  be  some  mistake,  and  I  was  going  to  get  an 
attendant,  when  he  noticed  me  and  seemed  to  guess 
my  thought. 

''It's  all  right,"  he  said,  "you  needn't  call  any  one. 
The  place  closed  an  hour  ago  and  there  is  only  a  guard 
down-stairs,  who  is  asleep  by  this  time.  It  happens 
to  be  my  night  to  reincarnate  and  I  am  glad  you  are 
here  to  keep  me  company.     You  can  tell  me  a  good 

384 


A   Visit  With  Rameses  II. 


deal,  no  doubt.  These  people  here  don't  know  any- 
thing." He  waved  a  hand  to  the  sleepers  about  him. 
''They  are  allowed  only  one  night  in  a  thousand 
years.  The  gods  allow  me  a  night  in  every  century. 
I  was  always  a  favorite  of  the  gods.  It  is  fortunate 
you  happened  to  stop  with  us  to-night." 

"It  is  fortunate,"  I  said.  ''I  shall  be  envied  by 
my  race.  I  have  just  been  trying  to  imagine  some- 
thing of  your  life  and  period.  That  is  far  more  in- 
teresting than  to-day.     Tell  me  something  about  it." 

Rameses  rested  comfortably  on  the  side  of  his  case. 

"Oh,  well,"  he  said,  reflectively,  "of  course  mine 
was  a  great  period — a  very  great  period.  Egypt  was 
never  so  great  as  it  was  under  my  rule.  It  was  my 
rule  that  made  it  great  —  my  policy,  of  course,  and 
my  vigorous  action.  I  was  always  for  progress 
and  war.  The  histories  you  have  of  my  period  are  poor 
things.  They  never  did  me  justice,  but  it  was  my 
own  fault,  of  course.  I  did  not  leave  enough  records 
of  my  work.  I  was  always  a  modest  man — too  modest 
for  my  own  good,  everybody  said  that. 

"I  was  religious,  too,  and  built  temples  wherever 
there  was  room.  It  is  said  that  I  claimed  temples 
that  I  did  not  build.  Nonsense! — I  built  all  the 
temples.  I  built  Kamak;  I  built  Luxor;  I  built 
Abou-Simbel ;  I  built  Abydos ;  I  built  the  Pyramids ; 
I  built  the  Sphinx ;  I  invented  the  sacred  bulls ;  I  was 
all  there  was  to  religion,  in  Egypt.  I  was  all  there 
was  to  Egypt.  I  was  the  whole  thing.  It  is  a  pity 
I  did  not  make  a  record  of  these  things  somewhere." 

"There  are  a  few  statues  of  you,"  I  suggested,  "and 
inscriptions — they  seem  to  imply — " 

385 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


*'Ah  yes,"  he  said,  "but  not  many.  It  was  slow 
work  carving  those  things.  I  could  have  had  many 
more,  if  the  workmen  had  been  more  industrious. 
But  everything  was  slow,  and  very  costly — very 
costly  indeed — why,  I  spent  a  fortune  on  that  temple 
of  Kamak  alone.  You  saw  what  I  did  there ;  those 
ram -headed  sphinxes  nearly  bankrupted  me.  I  had 
to  cut  down  household  expenses  to  finish  them. 

"Yes,  my  wife  objected  a  good  deal — I  speak 
collectively,  of  course,  signifying  my  domestic  com- 
panionship— there  were  fourteen  of  her. 

' '  She  wanted  jewelry^ — collectively— individually, 
too,  for  that.matter— and  it  took  such  a  lot  to  go 
around.  You  saw  all  those  things  in  the  next  room. 
They  were  for  her;  they  were  for  that  matrimonial 
collection;  I  could  never  satisfy  the  feraale  craving 
for  such  things.  Why,  I  bought  one  round  of  neck- 
laces that  cost  as  much,  as  a  ram-headed  sphinx. 
Still  she  was  not  satisfied.  .  Then  ,she  was  sorry  after- 
ward— collectively— and  bought  me  a  sphinx  as  a 
present— got  it  made  cheap  somewhere  with  her 
picture  carved  on  the  front  of  it.  You  may  have 
noticed  it — third  on  the. right  as  you  come  out.  I 
used  it — ^^I  had  to— but  it  was  a  joke.  When  wives 
buy  things  for  their  husbands  it  is  quite  often  so. 
;  "Oh  yes,  I  was  a  great  king,  of  course,  and  the 
greatest  warrior  the  world  has  ever  seen ;  but  my 
path  was  not  all  roses.  My  wife — my  household 
collection— wanted  their  statues  placed  by  the  side 
of  mine.  Individually  1  Think  of  what  a  figure  I 
would  have  cut!  It  was  a  silly  notion.  What  had 
they  done  to  deserve  statues?    I  did  it,  though — ■ 

386 


GOT    IT    MADE    CHEAP    SOMEWHERE,    WITH    HER    PICTURE 
CARVED    OX    THE    FRONT    OF    IT 


A  Visit  With  Rameses  II, 


that  is  collectively — here  and  there.  I  embodied  her 
in  a  single  figure  at  my  knee,  as  became  her  position. 
But  she  wasn't  satisfied — collectively  and  individually 
she  declared  she  amounted  to  as  much  as  I  did,  and 
pointed  at  our  seventy- two  sons. 

**  No,  I  was  never  understood  by  that  lot.  I  was 
never  a  hero  in  my  own  house.  So  I  had  to  order 
another  statue,  putting  her  at  my  side.  You  saw  it 
down-stairs.  It  is  very  beautiful,  of  course,  and  is  a 
good  likeness  of  her,  collectively.  She  always  made 
a  good  composite  picture,  but  is  it  fair  to  me?  She 
was  never  regarded  in  that  important  way,  except  by 
herself. 

"Yes,  it  is  very  pleasant  here — very  indeed.  The 
last  time  I  was  allowed  to  reincarnate,  I  was  still  in 
the  cave  at  Der  al-Bahari,  where  they  stored  us  when 
Cambyses  came  along  and  raided  Thebes.  Cambyses 
burned  a  number  of  my  temples.  It  was  too  bad. 
The  cave  was  a  poor  place,  but  safe.  My  tomb  was 
much  pleasanter,  though  it  was  not  as  grand  as  I  had 
intended  it  to  be.  I  meant  to  have  the  finest  tomb 
in  the  valley,  but  my  contractor  cheated  me. 

**The  men  who  furnished  the  materials  paid  him 
large  sums  and  gave  me  very  poor  returns.  His 
name  was  Baksheesh,  which  is  how  the  word  orig- 
inated, though  it  means  several  things  now,  I  be- 
lieve." 

"How  interesting!"  I  interrupted.  "We  would 
call  that  grafting  in  our  country." 

"Very  Hkely ;  I  didn't  find  out  that  he  was  grafting, 
as  you  say,  until  quite  late,  then  I  put  him  into  a 
block  of.  concrete  and  built  him  into  a  temple.     He 

387 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


made  a  very  good  block;  he  is  there  yet.      After  that 
there  was  no  trouble  for  a  while." 

''I  saw  something  of  the  kind  at  Algiers — one 
Geronimo,"  I  began — 

''Later,  three  thousand  years  later.  I  originated 
the  idea — ^it  has  been  often  adopted  since.  Those 
people  along  the  Coast  adopted  a  good  many  of  my 
ideas,  but  they  never  get  the  value  out  of  them.  It 
put  an  end  to  baksheesh — graft  as  you  call  it — in 
Thebes,  and  it  would  be  valuable  to-day  in  Cairo,  I 
should  think.  A  wall  around  Cairo  could  be  built 
in  that  way — there  is  enough  material." 

The  King  rested  a  little  on  his  other  arm,  then 
continued : 

''Speaking  of  my  tomb.  I  am.  glad  I  am  not  there. 
I  attract  much  more  attention  here  than  if  I  were  on 
exhibition  in  that  remote  place.  There's  Amenophis 
II.  I  understand  that  he's  very  proud  of  the  fact 
that  he's  the  only  king  left  in  his  tomb.  I  don't  envy 
him  at  all.  I  have  a  hundred  visitors  where  he  has 
one.  They  are  passing  by  me  here  in  a  string  all 
day,  and  when  they  are  your  countrymen  I  can  hear 
a  good  deal  even  through  the  thick  glass.  I  find  it 
more  interesting  to  stay  here  in  my  case  through  the 
day,  than  to  be  stalking  about  the  underworld, 
attending  sacrifices  to  Anubis  and  those  other  gods. 
I  was  always"  fond  of  activity  and  progress." 

"You  keep  up  with  your  doings,  then?" 
.  "Well,  not  altogether.     You  see,  I  cannot  go  about 
in  the  upper  world.     I  catch  only  a  word  of  things 
from  the  tourists.     I  hear  they  have  a  new  kind  of 
boat  on  the  Nile." 

388 


A  Visit  With  Ratneses  II, 


"Yes,  indeed,"  I  said.  **A  boat  that  is  run  by 
steam — a  mixture  of  fire  and  water — and  is  lit  by 
electricity — a  form  of  lightning." 

I  thought  he  would  be  excited  over  these  things,  and 
full  of  questions;  but  he  only  reflected  a  little  and 
asked, 

**What  is  the  name  of  that  boat?" 

"Oh,  there  are  many  of  them.  The  one  I  came 
down  on  was  called  the  Memnon.'' 

He  sighed.  • 

"There  it  is,"  he  said,  sadly.  "lam  discredited, 
you  see.  I  suppose  they  couldn't  name  it  'Rameses 
the  Great.'  " 

"Ah,  but  there  is  one  of  that  name,  too.'* 

He  brightened  a  little,  but  grew  sad  again. 

"Only  one?"  he  said. 

' '  Do  you  think  there  should  be  more  of  that  name  ?' ' 
I  asked. 

He  sat  up  quite  straight. 

*  *  In  my  time  they  would  all  have  borne  that  great 
name,"  he  said. 

"And — ah,  wouldn't  that  be  a  bit  confusing?" 

"Not  at  all.  I  have  set  up  as  many  as  a  hundred 
statues  in  one  temple — all  of  Rameses  the  Great. 
They  were  not  at  all  confusing.  You  knew  all  of 
them  immediately." 

"True  enough;  and  now  I  think  of  it,  perhaps  you 
have  not  heard  that  they  have  made  your  portrait 
as  you  lie  here,  and,  by  a  magic  process  of  ours,  have 
placed  it  on  a  sort  of  papyrus  tablet — a  postal  card 
we  call  it — and  by  another  process  have  sent  thou- 
sands of  them  over  the  world." 

389 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


He  looked  at  me  with  eyes  that  penetrated  my 
conscience. 

"Is  that  statement  true?"  he  asked,  tremulously. 

*'It  is — every  word.  Your  portrait  is  as  familiar 
to  the  world  to-day  as  it  was  here  in  Egypt  three 
thousand  years  ago." 

The  great  peace  that  had  rested  on  the  king's 
face  came  back  to  it.  The  piercing  eyes  closed  rest- 
fully,  and  he  slipped  back  on  his  pillow. 

"Then,  after  all,  I  am  vindicated,"  he  murmured. 
"I  have  not  lived  and  died  in  vain." 

A  hand  was  resting  on  my  shoulder.  The  sun  was 
shining  in,  and  a  threatening  guard  w^as  standing 
over  me. 

It  was  nothing.  Five  francs  allayed  his  indignation. 
Five  francs  is  a  large  baksheesh  in  Cairo,  but  I  did  not 
begrudge  it,  as  matters  stood.  ^^ 


XLVI 

THE    LONG   WAY   HOME 

WE  bade  good-bye  to  Egypt  that  morning,  and  to 
Gaddis — whose  name  and  memory  will  always 
mean  Egypt  to  me — and  were  off  for  Alexandria, 
where  the  ship  was  waiting.  That  long-ago  dream  of 
a  visit  to  Damascus  and  Jerusalem,  and  of  a  camp  on 
the  Nile  had  been  realized.     Now  it  was  over. 

We  were  ready  to  go  home — at  least  some  of  us 
were.  There  would  be  a  stop  at  Naples,  with  Pompeii 
and  Rome  for  those  who  cared  for  it,  but  even  these 
great  places  would  be  tame  after  Egypt.  They 
must  be  approached  from  another  direction  for  that 
eager  interest  which  properly  belongs  to  an  expedi- 
tion of  this  kind.  A  number  of  our  ship-dwellers 
had  an  eager  interest — a  large  and  growing  interest — 
but  it  was  for  home,  an  interest  that  was  multiplied 
each  day  by  the  square  of  the  distance  travelled. 

Not  many  of  us  were  left  when  we  had  made  our  last 
touch  on  the  Riviera,  rounded  the  Rock,  and  set  out  on 
the  long,  steady,  Atlantic  swing.  The  Reprobates  had 
gone  vid  Monte  Carlo  to  Paris.  Others  had  drifted 
up  through  Europe  to  sail  from  Cherbourg.  The 
Diplomat  was  still  with  us ;  also  Fosdick  of  Ohio,  and 
Laura,  age  fourteen,  but  only  a  score  or  two  of  the 
original  muster  could  gather  at  the  long  table  in  the 
dining-room  on  the  last  night  out  of  port,  for  a  final 

391 


The  Ship -Dwellers 


look  at  one  another,  and  to  exchange  the  greetings  and 
god-speeds  for  which  there  would  be  little  time  during 
the  bustle  of  arrival.  It  was  hardly  an  occasion; 
just  a  pleasant  little  meeting  that  even  with  jollifica- 


SET    OUT    ON    THE    LONG,    STEADY,    ATLANTIC    SWING 


tion  was  not  without  sadness.  One  of  the  ship's 
poets  offered  some  verses  of  good-bye,  of  which  I 
recall  these  lines: 

"  To-night,  we  are  here  who  have  stayed  by  the  ship; 
To-morrow,  the  harbor  and  anchor  and  sh'p — 
The  word  of  command  for  the  gang-plank  to  fall — 
The  word  that  shall  suddenly  scatter  U3  all — 


The  Long   Way  Home 


Then  all  the  King's  horses  and  all  the  King's  men 
Could  never  collect  us  together  again." 


That  was  a  good  while  ago,  nearly  a  year  now,  and 
already  it  seems  as  far  back  in  the  past  as  the  days  of 
Rameses;  for,  as  I  have  said  somewhere  before,  we 
have  but  a  meagre  conception  of  time.  Indeed,  I 
suspect  there  is  no  such  thing  as  time.  How  can  there 
be  when  one  period  is  as  long  as  another  compared 
with  eternity? 

However,  I  do  not  compare  with  eternity,  now. 
I  compare  with  Egypt.  1  shall  always  compare  with 
Egypt — everything  else  in  the  world.  Other  interests 
and  other  memories  may  fade  and  change,  but  Egypt, 
the  real  Egypt,  the  enchantment  of  that  land,  which 
is  not  a  land,  but  a  vast  processional  epic,  will  never 
change,  and  it  will  not  grow  dim.  I  may  never  visit 
it  again,  but  I  shall  see  it  many  times.  I  shall  see  the 
sunrise  above  the  palms,  flooding  the  mountains 
with  amethyst  and  turning  the  sky  to  crimson  gold. 
Again  at  sunset  I  shall  sit  in  the  vast  temple  of  Luxor 
and  hear  once  more  the  Muezzin's  call  to  prayer.  I 
shall  race  with  Laura  across  the  hot  desert;  I  shall 
hear  the  cry  of  the  donkey-boys  and  the  scarab- 
sellers  and  the  wail  for  baksheesh;  I  shall  see  our 
cavalcade  scattering  through  the  dust  across  the 
Libyan  sands.  And  I  shall  wander  once  more  among 
the  tombs  of  the  kings,  and  follow  down  the  splendid 
passage  where  Amenophis  lies  with  the  repose  of  the 
ages  on  his  benignant  face.  I  shall  recall  other  lands 
and  other  ages,  too,  but  it  is  to  Egypt  that  I  shall 
turn  after  all  the  others  have  drifted  by;    to  her 

393 


The  Ship-Dwellers 


temples  and  her  tombs — her  glories  of  the  past  made 
visible.  Beyond  the  sands  and  the  centuries  they 
lie,  but  they  are  mine  now,  and  neither  thief  nor 
beggar,  nor  importunate  creditor,  can  ever  take  them 
away. 


THE    END 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below, 
or  on  the  date  to  which  renewed.  Renewals  only: 

Tel.  No.  642-3405 
Renewals  may  be  made  4  days  prior  to  date  due. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 

Due  end  of  SUMMER  Perfod      ^^-r.  ..-    o  m 

subjuU  to  recall  after!       ^^^    ^  2  ^^  ^  * 

"WdTd    SEP  14  "Uio  am  7  6 


LD2lA-50m-2,'71  tt   •  ^''".^'■^^^i^^?^     • 

(P2001sl0)476-A-32  ^"^^""'^^keS     "'^"'^ 


YD  O'i'Di'b 


1^309165 


